The Curse of Bean Sidhe
by Oubliette14
Summary: CS Enchanted Forest AU. A princess, a curse, and a vengeful pirate captain. Kidnapped and cursed as a child, Emma spends nearly a decade locked away in solitude, until one day a certain devilishly handsome pirate comes to her rescue. Rated M for language, violence, and steamy goodness.
1. Prologue

Just a short note, then I'll let you get on to the story.

This idea came to me back in November and I've been working on it for the last few months. I wanted to get a large portion of this story written before I decided to post, and with 70,000+ words currently tucked away on my laptop, I can officially say that I have done so.

This is without a doubt the longest work I have ever written and it's not finished yet. I will be posting the first chapter along with the prologue, and will aim to update twice a week.

So without further ado, here it is!

* * *

><p>PROLOGUE<p>

_Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a prince and a princess. The tale of their romance was not an easy one. Prince Charming and Snow White had to overcome many obstacles on their path to one another. _

_You see, Prince Charming was originally betrothed to another, and Snow White, well; she was a thief and a bandit on the run from The Evil Queen. Eventually though, true love prevailed and they married._

_This however, was not their happy ending. The past has a funny way of coming back to haunt you and every decision has its consequences. As a mere child Snow White betrayed a confidence, believing that it was the right thing to do. His name was Daniel. Regina loved him and he died. _

_From that moment on, Regina held a grudge against Snow White: A grudge that would eventually result in Regina becoming The Evil Queen. _

_Happily married, Prince Charming and Snow White were expecting their first child. Then news came that The Evil Queen was planning to curse the land and take the kingdom for her own. _

_Just days before the baby was due, Prince Charming and Snow White, with a little help from the Blue Fairy, managed to come into possession of a very special kind of bean. The Evil Queen was lured, captured by her own hatred. A portal was created and she was banished to another realm. _

_The morning after, Snow White gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. They named her Emma and her hair was as gold as the sun and her eyes shone with the colours of earth and grass and all that is good and green. _

_With the Evil Queen exiled, Charming and Snow White took their rightful place as King and Queen, and for the next ten years, the royal couple and young Emma lived what they believed was their happily ever after._

* * *

><p>Emma sits in her chair at the large dining table. Her mother and father sit across from her, eating their breakfast, conversing amicably about something she has no interest in at all. Emma pushes the food around on her plate; she's too excited to eat. Today is her tenth birthday and all she wants to do is run down to the stables and go for a ride.<p>

Her father bought her a new horse yesterday because she's getting taller now and has outgrown her pony. She wants to try out her new mount before her mother rushes her back up to the castle to prepare her for this evening's birthday ball.

"Mom? Dad?" Emma sits on the edge of her seat, practically vibrating, ready to take off running as soon as she has permission. "Can I go ride Aurelia now? Please!"

Snow White looks up from her plate and nods. Emma is half way to the door she hears her mother call.

"Emma, wait!" Snow points to her riding cloak, forgotten on the chair. "Bring that with you, it's still cold out. And thank your father for the new horse!"

Emma runs back to grab her cloak and presses a kiss to father's cheek, then leans over and presses one to her mother's as well.

She slings the cloak over her shoulders, securing it at her neck as she exits the castle and takes off running. The stables are located near the edge of the massive cliff-top property and she's glad that her father taught her how to ride properly because it gives her an excuse to get out of dresses and wear breeches. She has no interest in riding side-saddle in a dress like some dainty lady.

When she enters the stables, William the stable hand is working. He's been around for a long as Emma can remember, probably before she was born. She greets him with a smile as she grabs her brushes and makes her way over to Aurelia's stall.

Emma combs her fingers through the mare's long flaxen mane and twists it into a running braid along her neck. She brushes Aurelia's golden coat until it gleams and picks the dirt from her hooves. She takes her time getting to know the new horse; creating a bond while she prepares for her ride.

By the time she's ready to mount, she can hear her stomach growling loudly. Perhaps skipping breakfast wasn't the smartest idea. William must have heard it too because he walks over to her with an apple in hand.

"Here you go princess." He hands her the apple. "Wouldn't do to have you fainting from hunger and falling from your horse, now would it?"

Emma accepts the apple with a "thank you" and shines it against her shirt before taking a big bite.

She barely manages a step forward before her vision swims. The ground blurs before her eyes, rushing up to meet her face, and just before she loses consciousness, she sees William disappear in a cloud of purple smoke. In his place stands a dark haired woman in a strange black dress.

* * *

><p>Charming sits in the castle library with a book open on his lap. His feet are propped up on the table in front of him and for the hundredth time he forgets his place on the page. His thoughts drift to Emma. Ten years old today. He can scarcely believe it. Seems like just yesterday he was holding her in his arms for the first time, all bright eyes and golden peach fuzz. Before he knows it, she'll be sixteen and they'll be picking out suitors for her. He chuckles lightly. It's likely she'll be refusing them all.<p>

He feels Snow's presence before he sees her and he looks up as she enters the room.

"David? Could you run down to the stables and fetch our daughter?" Snow holds up a dress. "I think she's trying to avoid preparing for her ball tonight. Honestly, getting that girl into a dress is harder than breaking a curse."

Charming closes his book and stands up. "You know, I remember a time years ago when you were just as reluctant to put on a dress. Maybe you should ask yourself where she gets it from."

He places a gentle kiss on Snow's forehead, smiling as he walks through the doorway. Like mother, like daughter, in so many ways.

He walks slowly to the stables, knowing how much Emma enjoys her time around the horses. Summer is over now and while the sun still sits high in the sky, he can feel the coolness of autumn asserting its presence in the crisp air.

When he reaches the stables, he knows immediately that something is wrong. It's too quiet; far too quiet. Emma's new horse stands in her stall, door open, still fully tacked.

"Emma?" he calls, concerned.

Nothing.

"William?"

Still nothing.

He turns the corner, searching, and his heart stops, sputtering to an abrupt halt in his chest. On the floor is a bright red apple with a bite taken out of it.

* * *

><p>Everything happens so quickly. Guards are alerted. There's calling and shouting as horses are mounted and the palace grounds and surrounding forest are scoured in search of Emma. He knows it's too late though. He <em>knows<em> who took her.

Snow has been alerted and comes rushing down to the stables, Emma's dress still clutched tightly in her hands. Their eyes meet and David embraces her tightly.

"We will find her. I promise. We will find our daughter," his words are spoken fervently against Snow's temple.

They hold each other tightly for minutes, hours, he's not entirely sure how long. At some point the horse fusses in her stall and David guides Snow to a bale of straw and sits her down. She's still clinging to Emma's dress and her eyes are unfocused, looking right through him as if he's a ghost.

He steps away and moves to un-tack Emma's horse. As he loosens the cinch and pulls the saddle from her back, a black envelope falls to the ground.

He picks it up and takes a seat next to Snow. As he opens it, a small shard of mirror, no larger than his palm slides out. Next to the mirror is a piece of parchment. He unfolds it and holds it out so that they both may read it.

_Snow White, Charming,_

_I have taken that which you hold most dear. I could have just killed her right where she stood and left her body there for you to find, but that seemed too simple a fate. No. Instead I have decided to curse her and lock her away where you will never reach her. _

_She will not die. But she may wish that she could. You see death is a far kinder fate than that which I have bestowed up on her. Every night when the sun sets, it will take with it, her golden glow. She will be reduced to a shell of herself, cursed by night to foresee death. _

_She will have until midnight on her twentieth birthday to break the curse. If she does not, she will spend an eternity as Bean Sidhe: doomed to foresee death after death, as a mere wraith, her physical self gone from this realm._

_Perhaps you are wondering about that broken piece of mirror? I have included it so that you may glimpse her suffering and suffer along with her. It will only work after sun down, so that you may never again see the light that was once your daughter. _

_- Regina_

David allows the parchment to flutter to the floor in front of them. Snow turns into him, face pressed against his chest, her body shaking silently against his. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and turns the shard of mirror over in his hand, fingers tracing the sharp edges.

Together they wait for sun down.

* * *

><p>Emma wakes gradually, her head pounding and mouth dry. She sits up slowly and takes in her surroundings. She's in some sort of underground cavern. It's not entirely dark; far up on one wall there's a small barred window through which light filters in. She stands and stumbles over to the nearest wall.<p>

Emma reaches out with her hand to steady herself and her palm makes contact with rough stone. She walks the perimeter of the room searching for a door but the stone walls are continuous, running in a large circle uninterrupted. On one side Emma finds a beaten up old chest filled with an assortment of tattered clothing. Next to it is rickety shelf filled with books; their pages are stained yellow and they smell of mildew.

On the other side of her prison there are two buckets. One empty and one filled with water. There's a mirror fastened to the wall. It's a large oval, rimmed in ornate scrolling silver. Several large cracks run through it and a small shard is missing from the bottom edge.

Wandering back to the centre of the cavern, she sits down on the lumpy straw-filled mattress. She looks up but there isn't a ceiling in sight. Above the small window, the walls of the cavern fade into inky blackness. In the quiet, she can hear the sound of waves crashing against a distant shore. All alone, Emma drops her head into her hands and cries.

* * *

><p>A loud screech startles Emma from sleep. She looks up to see a crow silhouetted between the bars of the window. Her nose is stuffed and her temples throb from crying. She must have passed out from sheer exhaustion. The cell is damp and cold and the mattress does little to provide a barrier but it's better than sleeping on the dirty floor.<p>

Emma wishes for her parents, her maid, her guards, anyone at all. She may have her father's courage and her mother's spirit but she's still just a child and the closest she's ever come to spending time alone in the darkness, was a warm spring night months ago when she insisted on sleeping in the stables, waiting for her favourite mare to give birth.

Fear seizes her chest and she wants nothing more than to break down again but she can't cry any more. She has no tears left. She draws her knees up to her body and wraps her arms tightly around her shins. Emma stares at the lone barred window high up on the wall. Her only source of light dwindles as the sun sinks below an invisible horizon.

Just before darkness settles, she feels a cold chill wash over her that has little to do with the damp sea air. Her fingers begin to ache, tingling with uncomfortable tension. Holding her hand out in front of her, she watches in horror as her skin blanches, and tightens. Her muscles seem to wither in front of her eyes and her bones and tendons stand out in sharp relief against thin glowing skin.

The ache spreads over her body, rushing through her chest, up her neck and to settle in her skull. She reaches up and feels how her eyes have sunken into their sockets, her cheek and jaw bones press back harshly against her fingers. She trails her fingers down her chest and can count every rib, her skin nothing but a thin veil between bone and air.

Standing, she rushes over to the mirror. There's barely any light left in the cavern but she can see herself clearly. Emma stares at her reflection in the broken mirror. What looks back at her steals the breath from her lungs in a gasp. Her long golden hair is now pale, white, and almost translucent. Her skin is ashen and glows eerily with a sickly pallor. Her face and body appear gaunt, sunken as though all the life has left her. Dark shadows circle her eyes and once bright irises are now dull grey.

Emma turns away, unable to stand her reflection any longer. She looks dead, she thinks with disgust. _She looks like a monster._

Panic sets in as the last vestige of light vacates her prison. If there is a moon tonight, she cannot see it. Darkness envelopes her and she stares into the abyss: nothing but inky blackness in front of her. She wonders if her eyes are even open. When her fingers make contact with her eyelashes, she hears it. It's a quiet whimpering and she wonders if maybe she's not alone in her prison. She searches the darkness and sees a young boy, about her age hiding behind a rickety old straw cart.

"Hello?" she calls out to him but the boy can't seem to hear her.

"What's wrong? Can I help you?" she tries again but still, he doesn't reply. Emma walks over to him and when she tries to place a hand on his shoulder, it passes right through him. She tries again and again but it's as if he's a ghost.

"BOY!" A loud voice booms, and Emma staggers backwards, pressing herself against the stone wall of the cavern.

A large man walks up to the boy and grabs him roughly by the collar, dragging him forcefully from his hiding place. The man is drunk. Emma can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"STUPID BOY! YOU LEFT THE GATE OPEN!" The man bellows as he backhands the boy across the face. Splitting his lip and sending him sprawling into the dirt.

The boy whimpers again, arm coming up to shield his face. But the man kicks him in the stomach instead.

"STUPID, GOOD FER NOTHING STABLE BOY!"

Another kick.

"THE HORSES ARE GONE!"

Kick.

"RUN OFF TO GOD KNOWS WHERE!"

Kick.

Emma watches helplessly, as the boys arm falls limply to his side. She slides down the wall, her legs no longer able to support her.

"NO!" she screams as the man delivers one final, sickening blow to the boys head before disappearing.

She crawls slowly across the floor to the boy and kneels beside him. She tries but she can't touch him. She can't help him. He can't even hear her. She wants to apologize, to say sorry for not being able to help him. She wants to whisper words of reassurance. She wants him to know he's not going to die alone. But he is going to die and it's going to be alone and there isn't anything at all she can do to help.

Her hands fall weakly into her lap. Emma watches the boy struggle to breathe, blood pooling beneath his head and bubbling up past his lips. When he takes his final breath and the light leaves his eyes, Emma screams.

* * *

><p>Snow sits next to her husband, his hand clasped tightly in her own. They've not spoken a word since reading Regina's letter. Sitting in silence they've waited for the sun to set. Minutes earlier David lit several lanterns, illuminating the stables with the soft glow of firelight. It's almost dark now and she holds the shard of mirror tightly in her hand, its rough edges biting into the flesh of her palm.<p>

Outside the sun dips below the horizon and together they watch as the surface of the mirror shifts, swirling from reflective silver to the purest of blacks.

At first they see nothing but darkness. Suddenly there's a white-grey blur moving about and Emma's face appears in the shard of mirror. Except, it's not Emma, it can't be. The figure has Emma's high cheekbones, her long flowing hair and is wearing her clothes, but everything else is wrong. So wrong. This must be the curse Regina placed upon her, Snow thinks, horrified. They watch as Emma turns around, only her back now visible in the shard.

"Hello?" Emma's voice calls uncertainly and Snow nearly sobs at the sound.

"Emma? Honey? I'm here, I can hear you!" Snow calls but Emma doesn't reply. Instead she walks further away as if searching for something.

Emma speaks again softly. "What's wrong? Can I help you?" She reaches out as if trying to touch something but her hand just falls back to her side. Emma tries a few more times before suddenly stepping backwards and pressing herself tightly against the wall.

They watch as Emma cowers against the wall, her distorted features show that she is clearly terrified by something she is seeing. Moments later she crumples to the floor.

"NO!" The unexpected scream and anguish in Emma's voice cause David to jump beside her.

They watch as Emma crawls across the grimy floor, stopping to kneel after a few feet. She reaches out to touch something again but her hand just falls to the ground. Snow can see tears streaming down Emma's face and knows her own cheeks are wet with grief as well.

Emma's hands fall hopelessly into her lap, fisting in her cape, and she screams.

It's a loud keening cry, full of anger and sorrow and fear. Snow's heart nearly stops beating at the sound of it. She grips David's hand tighter and they turn as the glass windows of the stable rattle violently in their frames. When Emma finally stops screaming, the windows burst, glass shattering into thousands of pieces.

The horses pace in their stalls, frightened, throwing their weight against the doors as they whinny in fear, trying to flee.

When Snow looks back down at the shard of mirror, it's just that; her own face reflected back at her. David takes it from her hand, sliding it into his pocket. He embraces her fiercely and together they cry.


	2. Chapter One

- Present Day -

Killian Jones sits at a rough wooden table, bottle of rum in his hand, a tavern wench on his lap. His most trusted crew members sit round the table with him, similar drink and company in their grasp. It's their first night upon solid land in nearly a month and Killian intends to see that his crew enjoys themselves. The Jolly Roger is ripe with fresh loot and treasure: they have coin to burn.

The rest of his crew has already staggered off into the night and he doesn't expect to see them for a couple days. His men have won a hard-earned break and are not expected back aboard the ship until the morning after tomorrow.

"So Cap'n, what's our next mission? Who'd you like to steal from next?" O'Malley asks, slamming his heavy mug of grog down on the table. The hot liquid sloshes over the sides but the man pays little notice.

Killian takes a large swig of rum from his bottle. "The only mission I'm interested in right now mates," he taps the tavern wench, prompting her to stand, "is a belly full of rum and this wench here."

He stands and slides his hook through the laces on the woman's corset. Tugging forcefully, his hook tears through them easily.

"Greaves, Jennings, O'Malley," he nods at his men, "I suggest you take this opportunity to do the same; wouldn't want to disappoint these lovely lasses."

Killian drags the willing woman behind him through the crowd. He pauses to toss a handful of coins to the barkeep, who in return hands him a heavy brass key. He has the woman half undressed by the time they climb the stairs and he unlocks the door to the room.

He closes the door behind him and the woman turns to him, trying to kiss him, but he directs her away and shoos her toward the bed. "Ah, ah, not necessary lass. lift your skirts and lean over the bed for me."

She does as told, upper body pressed against the bed, her bare bottom raised and waiting.

Killian unlaces his pants, freeing his length. He stokes himself roughly a few times before pressing into the waiting woman. There's nothing special about it but he's still a gentleman and whore or not, he ensures she has her pleasure before taking his own.

He thrusts a few final times and pulls out, spilling his release on the bed. No part of him wants to leave a trail of pregnant whores and bastard children scattered around the realm.

He cleans himself off with the bed linens and re-laces his pants. He pats the woman on the ass, tosses a handful of coins next to her on the bed and leaves the room without a word.

It's late now, probably only a few hours till sun up but he's not tired. He contemplates returning to his ship but he knows it will be empty and he doesn't fancy sitting alone in the darkness with naught but his demons for company. A handful of patrons still fill the tavern, so he finds a seat in a dark corner and props his feet up carelessly on the table. A barmaid comes round and he orders a mug of warm grog.

He sips at the drink and listens to the conversations around him. It's quieter than before, the rowdy youngsters gone, three sheets to the wind and likely passed out in an alley somewhere.

It's a lonely life he leads: sure he has his crew but everything else he used care about, really care about is long gone. His brother is dead at the hands of a lethal poison from another world, and his Milah, her heart torn from her chest and crushed before his very eyes by a vile crocodile.

He longs to take his revenge upon the evil man, but knows that he doesn't stand a chance against the Dark One's magic. The loss of his hand is proof enough of that. So instead he sails the seas with his crew, thieving and trying to fill the emptiness in his heart with treasure and rum and meaningless sex. Killian scoffs, he's a pathetic excuse for a human being, and he knows it.

He downs the rest of his grog and signals for another: may as well drown his sorrows.

There's a table of sailors not far from him and he listens half-heartedly to their conversation as he drinks. His interest grows when they speak of a beautiful cursed princess trapped at sea on an island called Caoin. There is tell of a great reward for her safe return; wealth beyond measure and the eternal gratitude of a king and queen.

"No one has ever been able to reach the island alive," the one man says, "if the sea and rocks don't kill you, the mermaids will."

Killian has never been one to shy from a challenge and he doubts that any of these other ships were made from enchanted wood. The Jolly Roger would not be so easily defeated by the sea and his crew is no stranger to battle with mermaids. He thinks, perhaps, he's found a new mission for his crew. They will be content with the promise of untold riches, and perchance, in exchange for the return of their daughter, the king and queen would be willing to aid in his quest to defeat the Dark One.

For the first time in years, Killian Jones has a plan.

* * *

><p>When dawn breaks, Killian leaves the tavern. He knows just who to see for more information. He makes a stop at his ship and collects an expensive bottle of rum, a carton of flavoured tobacco and another pouch of gold. Information, especially the good kind, doesn't come cheap.<p>

It's a short walk through the seaside town and into the forest.

The small cottage is constructed almost entirely of stone and covered in a heavy growth of moss and lichen. Smoke rises from the chimney and Killian can smell a fire burning as he approaches.

He knocks three times in quick succession and moments later the door opens to reveal a stout old man with a pipe in his hand.

"Jones, what in the devil are you doing here you dastardly pirate?" the man's voice is harsh but Killian can see the smile quirking at the corner of his mouth.

"You should be glad to see me old man, who else is capable of procuring the finest tobacco in the land?" Killian holds up the carton rattling it and the man reaches for it, but Killian quickly pockets it. "Ah, not just yet Woodes. I need some information first. Shall we sit?"

Woodes acquiesces and stands back, gesturing for Killian to enter. Together they sit down in well-worn chairs by the fireplace and Woodes pours them both a cup of tea.

"So what brings you to my door Jones? If you're back for more information on the Dark One, I'm afraid I can't help you."

Killian shakes his head, hardly believing the following words are about to cross his lips. "Actually, I'm here about a princess that needs rescuing."

Woodes nearly chokes on his tea. "You? Rescue a princess?" he sputters. "Who are you and what've you done with Killian Jones?"

Killian chuckles. "Fear not, my intentions are not purely altruistic. I've heard there's a great reward involved should the task be completed successfully: a reward that has yet to be claimed because everyone who has attempted to reach her has perished. I'm simply looking to adequately prepare myself for the job, and anyone who knows anything, knows that you're the man to ask." A little flattery never hurt.

Woodes rises slowly and moves to shuffle through the papers on his cluttered desk. He grabs two scrolls and when he returns to his chair, he hands Killian the smaller of the two.

It's old and worn and Killian unravels it carefully. There's a drawing of a young girl on it, no older than 10 or 11.

"I take it this is the princess?" Killian asks.

Woodes nods. "She'll look different now, older. It's been over 9 years since she was taken by the Evil Queen." He unrolls the larger scroll, holding it between them to reveal a map. "She is trapped on Caoin. That's this island here," he points to a small speck far out in a portion of sea that even Killian has not sailed. "From the port in town it takes the average ship nearly a month and a half to reach it."

Killian smirks. "Should only take the Jolly about a month then; there's not a ship in this realm that can match her speed."

"Getting there isn't the issue," Woodes warns, "your ship may get you out there quickly, but that's when trouble begins. The sea will appear deceivingly calm at first, but the water surrounding the island is enchanted and as soon as you sail closer, the tides will quickly turn against you."

Woodes pauses to sip at his tea and Killian waits silently for the man to continue. "You'll never be able to reach the shore in a vessel her size. There's no path between the rocks big enough for it. You'll need a small rowboat to reach the shore. Of course you'd have to be absolutely_ mad_ to attempt that. If the waves don't manage to toss you against the rocks, the mermaids will surely pull you to your death."

Killian raises an eyebrow and the old man laughs. "I reckon you're just daft enough to attempt it."

"So what of the princess's curse? If she's going to turn into an ogre and attempt to eat me for supper, I'd rather know ahead of time," Killian inquires jokingly.

"Little is known about the specifics of her curse. The king and queen never released many details; only ensured that she would not cause harm to her rescuers," Woodes answers.

"There is however rumor that the curse must be broken by midnight on her twentieth birthday. So if you do manage to survive this foolish journey, I'd make haste in returning the princess to her family if you want your reward."

Killian nods. "Any other wisdom you care to impart on me, Woodes?"

The old man shakes his head. "If I thought you'd listen, Jones, I'd tell you to forget all about this nonsense. If you die, who will bring me my tobacco?"

Killian reaches across to pat the old man on the shoulder. "Fear not mate, I assure you, I'm a hard man to kill. It'll take far more than rough seas and a horde of mermaids to bring me down."

Killian stands and removes the tobacco, rum and coin from his pockets. Woodes takes each item from him gratefully and hands him the two scrolls in return.

Killian can tell the man is itching to break into the carton of tobacco, so he takes his leave. "Always a pleasure, Woodes," he says, saluting with his hook.

Closing the front door behind him, Killian strides back toward town. He has the rest of the day to restock his ship and gather provisions. Tomorrow morning, when his crew is back on board, they'll set sail.

* * *

><p>The light in her cell dims and Emma returns the worn book to its place on the rickety shelf. Sun down is near and she stands, making her way over to the cracked mirror. It's become a habit of late. She watches every night as the transformation takes place.<p>

For now the sun is still above the horizon and she takes the time to observe how her features have changed over the years. Her hair is much longer now. It falls passed her hips in a tangled mess. She still has the same high cheekbones but her lips are fuller and the dimple on her chin is more pronounced. Her body has changed too. Gone are the straight lines of childhood. She's a woman now; nearly nineteen and a half if her attempts at counting the days have been correct. She's taller too and still slim, but her hips flair out from her waist in a womanly curve and her breasts add dimension to her once flat chest.

She glances back over her shoulder at the window high up in her cell. The sun disappears from sight and she returns her gaze back to the mirror. She's become more accustomed to her nightly appearance over the years and it doesn't fill her with as much disgust as it used to. She'd come to the conclusion during her first months here, that the evil queen must have placed this curse upon her. As a child, her parents had told her stories of their relationship; her father breaking her mother's sleeping curse with true loves kiss. And finally, their eventual triumph over the evil queen just before her birth.

She misses her parents so much. It's been so long since she's gazed upon a face other than her own and she finds it harder and harder to picture them with each passing day. During her first few years in this prison, she used to dream that a handsome young prince would come and rescue her; breaking her curse with true loves kiss, but as the years passed, she lost hope that rescue would come, and even if it did, who could possibly fall in love with the monster she becomes during the darkest hours.

The familiar tension begins in her hands first, as it always does. It moves through her body and she watches in the mirror as her appearance transforms from healthy and golden to sunken and grey. When the transformation is complete she returns to her mattress in the middle of her cell and waits.

Over the years she's become hardened to much of the death she witnesses. Soldiers dying in battle still fill her with sadness but the feeling of terror she used to experience is nearly gone. She's absurdly grateful for the natural deaths of the old and frail, and finds that they almost fill her with a sense of peace. She also screams a lot less than she used to. Most nights, only the most violent of deaths involving women and children are capable of drawing a deep keening cry from her lungs.

Early on Emma used to think that the deaths were happening as she watched them, but as rescue attempts began to arrive, she realized that her visions were foresight. She knows every time a rescue attempt is on its way, because the night before, she foresees the deaths of every crew member on board. She watches the ships crumple against the rocks, capsized at sea by fierce waves as the men are drowned and devoured by mermaids.

Not once has a single soul managed to set foot on her island. Each time men try and fail, she is filled with such profound guilt. How many lives have been lost for her? How many more will die to set her free? She almost wishes they would stop trying.

A cold wind drifts through the window, ruffling her hair and she watches as a scene materializes before her eyes.

The ship that appears is different than most she has seen before. Its sails are rich crimson and there is no naval insignia anywhere in sight. The sea rises violently as the ship moves closer. Waves lash viciously against it, rocking it violently and attempting to draw it toward to the dangerous rocks she knows surround the island. The position of the ship holds fast though, a safe distance from the rocks, the waves unable to draw it closer or capsize a vessel of its size.

Mermaids appear by the dozens. Men are pulled overboard and drowned as the sea continues to rage. Some mermaids leap aboard the ship and tear the flesh from men with razor-like teeth. Men throw netting from the ship, trapping mermaids, hauling them aboard and slaughtering them with sharp swords. Harpoons are thrown, tearing through flesh. Cannonballs fly through the water, knocking mermaids back away from the ship. It's a massacre, vicious and bloody.

Emma hears a curse behind her and spins around just in time to see a dark-haired man being thrown from a small boat. She watches as a mermaid grasps his ankle, dragging him down away from the surface. Suddenly he his decent is halted and she notices that he has a rope tied around his waist, attached to the boat above.

The man frees the sword from his belt and strikes blindly at the mermaid. His sword makes contact with the mermaids shoulder and it releases its hold on his leg. The mermaid screeches loudly and rises to face him, teeth flashing, prepared to lunge for the man's throat and Emma fears the worst.

Somehow the man manages to hold his sword out in front of him in the nick of time and the mermaid forcefully impales herself upon it. As Emma watches the man free his sword from the mermaid's chest and kick forcefully to the surface, her pulse thunders deafeningly in her ears. When he makes it to the shore and hauls the boat up behind him, she nearly crumples with relief.

The man disappears and she turns her attention back to the large ship. There's several more minutes of cannon fire, men shouting, and mermaids screeching. Then silence: the waves settle and the large ship rocks gently in the calming waters.

It's been the same story, different version, night after night for as long as Emma can remember. But tonight it's different. Tonight for the first time in years, she dares to hope.


	3. Chapter Two

The Jolly Roger finally sails within sight of the island at daybreak on the thirtieth morning and Killian instructs his crew to drop anchor at safe distance, before taking out his spyglass and studying the small land mass.

It's not overly large, perhaps a few times the size of his ship, hardly more than a mass of jagged rocks protruding from the sea. The water surrounding it is still, its surface mirror-like, creating a perfect replica of the cloudy grey sky above. High up on one rock face there is a small window, and even at this distance, the bars on it appear rusty and corroded from the salty sea air.

Woodes was accurate in his information: there is no dock or level shore and there is no way they will be able to sail the Jolly Roger directly to it. Hidden beneath the reflective surface of the water, he expects a nasty maze of sharp rocks, waiting to tear any ship that draws too near to shreds.

He will have to lower a small vessel and row to shore. A narrow craft should be able to navigate the dangerous rocks. The mermaids pose another problem however. Taking on more than one of the hellish creatures from such a small boat is surely suicide. He will need a diversion if he is to reach the rocky shore alive.

Just as the sea is said to remain calm until a ship crosses a certain unmarked threshold, the mermaids are said not to attack until a ship crosses that same line. Killian certainly hopes that the rumors ring true.

He will take a small boat, row to the opposite side of the island and leave his crew to captain the Jolly Roger on this side. They will have to time it well. He dare not row towards the island until his crew has engaged the mermaids on their side. He needs them occupied, far away from him if he intends to succeed.

Killian summons his crew to the deck and explains his plan to them. They work efficiently and a short hour later when the cannons are readied, the nets prepared and every man stands with a sharp sword in his grasp, Killian instructs his crew to lower him in the small boat.

* * *

><p>Killian waits, boat rocking gently in the calm waters, alert and observant, tensed and at the ready. When he hears the loud rumble of cannon fire echoing across the sea, he begins rowing towards the island. His right hand clutches one oar and his hook fits firmly through a hole in the other.<p>

As he nears the shore, the waters become treacherous, swirling with enchantments, brought alive by magic and determined to toss his small craft against the rocks. The sea churns violently, spinning him in circles and nearly overturning the boat numerous times. It takes all of his strength to fight the pull of the waves and direct himself along safe passage.

He has navigated the worst of the rocks and has his sights set on a flat expanse of stone when his small vessel suddenly rocks wildly beneath him.

He curses as the boat capsizes and he is thrown into the sea. Ice cold water envelops him and he feels a hand encircle his ankle, dragging him downwards.

_Bloody fucking mermaids_.

His decent is halted abruptly when the rope around his waist stretches to its limits, still firmly tethered to the boat above.

Fumbling for his cutlass, he grasps it in his right hand and slashes blindly at the mermaid. He knows he's made contact when the creature releases its grasp. Shrieking loudly under water it rises to face him, pointy teeth bared viciously. It dives for his neck but he manages to thrust his cutlass out in front of him and the mermaid impales herself upon it with force.

Killian places a foot against her body and pulls his cutlass from her chest. The mermaid sinks slowly downwards in a murky swirl of blood as he kicks frantically for the surface, lungs aching, brain desperate for oxygen.

When his head breaks above the waves, he's only meters from shore. Killian swims quickly for the coast and when his feet hold purchase on the flat stone beneath him, he grabs the rope around his waist and reels the overturned boat in behind him.

In the distance he can hear the roar of cannon fire, the shouts of his crew, and the unearthly screeching of mermaids.

He ensures the small vessel is far enough up on land that it won't wash away in the tide and unknots the rope from both his waist and the boat. He's drenched and chilled, so he discards his long leather jacket. It's heavy enough when dry: now, saturated with sea water it weighs nearly twice as much.

He winds up the rope and slings it over his shoulder before for slowly traversing his way up through the rocks to the window. The opening is small but a woman should be able to fit through it without difficulty. The bars are thankfully more rusty and corroded than he previously thought and he should be able to remove them fairly easily.

Killian kneels down, looking through the bars. It's dark below, but he can see her face clearly. The princess. She stands still as a statue, eyes meeting his, a look of utter disbelief on her pretty face. She's beyond dirty, her clothes are in tatters, her feet bare and her hair is a tangled golden mess, but she's even more beautiful than he was led to believe.

"You might want to stand back, lass," he calls down to her.

When she takes a few steps backwards, disappearing into the shadows, he stands and examines the bars again. A few well placed strikes with his hook loosen a stubborn bolt and a solid kick sends the bars tumbling loudly down into the cell below.

Killian ties the rope around his waist again and loops it around a boulder before tossing it down through the open window. Emma reappears and he shouts down to her.

"Grab hold of that, lass and secure it around you. I'll pull you up."

He feels her tug on the line, signalling her readiness and he begins hauling on the rope, using the boulder as a makeshift pulley system to keep the pressure off his waist. A pull with his hand, twist the rope around his hook, another pull. Tug with his hand, untangle his hook, and wrap the rope around it again. It's a process that would be much easier if he had two hands, but he keeps at it until she appears in the window, fingers grappling for a hold on the stone ledge.

Securing the rope in another knot around his waist, he reaches for her, forearms under her shoulders, lifting her up and through the window to stand on her own two feet. His arms fall back to his sides but she remains leaning against him heavily. Her hands are clenched tightly in the wet fabric of his vest and her forehead rests against his shoulder as she breathes deeply.

He stands perfectly still for a moment, catching his breath, and he notices that he can no longer hear cannon fire or the shouts of battle. In its absence, the sound of her breathing mixes with his own and the crash of waves, beating upon the rocks below.

"If you don't mind lass, while I do truly enjoy the feel of you pressed against me, I'd prefer to get off this wretched island now," he says, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't fancy staying here any longer than necessary and I imagine you'd quite like to be rid of it too."

Emma looks up at him, a light blush dusting across her cheeks and nods.

The trip back to the Jolly Roger is uneventful. With Emma in the boat, the once violent sea seems to settle instantly and the mermaids are either dead or have long since fled.

When they reach his ship, Killian steadies the small vessel so that Emma can grab hold of the rope ladder dangling over the edge.

He makes his way up the ladder behind her, ready to catch her should she fall, and when he climbs over the rail he realizes that his entire crew is most certainly dead. Only a few men are left on board, their necks shredded, torn open viciously by mermaid teeth. Blood soaks the deck, mixing with sea water, and there are several dead mermaids wrapped in nets on the starboard side. Everyone else must be lost to the depths of the sea.

He glances at Emma who stands silently observing the carnage. He can't quite decipher the look on her face; it's not fear per say, more shock than anything.

She shouldn't be seeing this, he thinks, and he unexpectedly finds himself wanting to shield her from the horror of mangled bodies and blood strewn across the deck.

Killian places his hand gently against her lower back to steer her away from the bodies and she startles at the touch, jumping away from him. He's not surprised, he'd be jumpy too if he'd been alone for that long.

"Let's get you settled, lass. I'll come back up here and take care of this mess after."

He leads her down below to an empty cabin and motions for her to sit at the small desk. She does and he can feel her gaze following him as he rummages through a large chest for some clothing that will fit her. None of it is meant for a woman and it is most certainly not fit for a princess but there is little else to offer her. He pulls out a long sleeved blouse and a pair of linen breeches that look like they should fit her. In the closet next to the chest he finds an old pair of riding boots and a heavy wool cape. This cabin has become a catch-all for unused clothing and item storage over the years.

He places them on the desk next to her and moves to retrieve a bar of soap and a several clean rags from another chest.

"I'll fetch you a bucket of water so you can wash up, and come back later with food. Aye?"

Emma nods and Killian leaves the cabin wondering if the princess even remembers how to speak after nine and a half years alone on that island. He's been through hell and back himself; the loss of his brother, his Milah, and his hand, but her fate, he can't even fathom it.

As he fills a bucket with fresh water from the storage basin, Killian finds himself wondering more about the nature of the princess's curse. He wants to ask her about it but isn't sure she could even respond. Either way, now is not the time; he needs to take care of what's left of his crew and he imagines that she could use some time to process everything.

Killian brings the bucket back to her quarters and closes her door behind him with a nod as he leaves.

His clothes are still damp; itchy and stiff as the salt from the sea water crystallizes. He wants to bathe and change, but there's little point in doing so before he cleans up the bloody mess on deck.

He starts by untangling the mermaid's bodies from the netting. They've likely only been dead an hour or so, but are already rank with the stench of rotting fish. He drags them to the starboard side and dumps them unceremoniously overboard.

His crew comes next: O'Malley, Jenkins, and two young ship hands that he never bothered to learn the names of are the only ones that remain on board.

O'Malley was the closest thing to family that he had left and he breathes a heavy sigh as he brushes his hand over the man's face, closing lids over lifeless eyes.

Determined to give them all a proper burial at sea, Killian gathers spare sailcloth and wheels a cart of cannonballs up onto deck. Carefully he lays each man atop his own cloth, placing cannonballs around his body before wrapping the sailcloth tightly and securing it with rope. It's backbreaking work but he drags them to the port side and one by one lifts them up and over the rail, releasing them to the watery depths. Disheartened, Killian crosses himself and watches as the weighted shrouds sink slowly, disappearing into the inky sea.

Afterwards, Killian hauls the small boat back up onto deck; the ropes taught as he manoeuvres it over the edge and settles it gently to the ground.

He wipes at the sweat on his brow, warm despite the miserable grey day, and strides up to the helm. He wants to put some distance between them and that miserable island.

He has never been so thankful that the Jolly Roger is crafted from enchanted wood and can pretty much sail herself when needed. Cranking the wheel sharply, he turns the ship into the breeze. Wind rushes up to fill her sails and she bounds forward, gliding smoothly through the waters. He loops a rope through the wheel, securing it in place to hold course.

He looks back down at the blood upon the deck and sighs; his work is not done yet. The sky is still dull and gloomy, the sun indistinguishable behind the ominous clouds, a perfect match to his mood. He grabs a mop and gets to work.

* * *

><p>When the strange man leaves the cabin, Emma locks the door behind him and returns to the desk, collapsing in the chair, trying to process the fact that she's actually been rescued.<p>

The man seems nice enough and she has to admit he's easy on the eyes, although that could just be because he's the first human being she's set sight on in nearly a decade. He looks nothing like the naval officers she met as a child. They were always clean shaven and they most certainly did not dress in black leather. They also didn't have piercing blue eyes or that lilting accent.

Emma shakes her head trying to clear her mind, but her thoughts are reeling. She's incredibly relieved and grateful to be free from her prison. She doesn't even know her rescuers name and has yet to thank him; too shocked to even speak. She also feels guilty, his entire crew dead because of her. She's also exhausted; her body weary but her mind just won't stop spinning. She's uncertain of the future and scared of what it might bring. She wants so badly to see her parents again, have them embrace her tightly in their arms, but she's terrified by the thought of anyone seeing what she becomes at night. She wants to laugh and she wants to cry and she's so, so confused by every emotion swirling within her.

Sighing, she decides she should probably make use of the water and soap the man brought her. She doesn't want to appear ungrateful. Double-checking that the door is locked, she fights the urge to barricade it with the table before slowly removing her tattered clothing so that she can wash up.

The bar of soap is rich and creamy and she inhales the soft milky scent of it as she scrubs the dirt from her skin. When her body is clean, her skin rubbed pink by the rough wash rag, she wraps the largest rag around her body, securing it between her breasts.

Emma places the heavy bucket of water on the desk and dunks her hair into it. Water spills over the edges as she scrubs at her hair, fingers combing through her long tresses. When she's done, she rings the water from her hair and dries it with the last rag. Brushing it out with her fingers is a long process but she's gotten good at it over the years. Prisons don't come with combs or palace staff to brush your hair out for you after all. Emma winds it into a long braid and ties the ends together with a strip of cloth torn from her old clothes.

She removes the rag from around her body and pulls the new shirt over her head. It's quite large on her, falling to mid-thigh and past her fingertips, but the worn cotton is soft against her skin and she pulls on the breeches next. There are no undergarments but she's okay with that because she can't imagine the strange man picking those out for her. The breeches lace up the front and she pulls the drawstrings tightly to ensure they fit snuggly. The boots are a little big but she tugs them on gladly. She hasn't worn shoes since she outgrew her riding boots during the first year of her imprisonment.

The temperature in the cabin is comfortable for the moment so she leaves the olive green cloak slung across the back of the chair, unlocks the door, and moves to explore the room. It's not huge, but there's a bunk against the one wall. She presses her palms against the mattress and is surprised at its softness. Several blankets cover the bed and she removes the top one, shaking the dust from it, folding it neatly and setting it aside on a chest. There's a small window above the bed and she draws the curtains to the side hoping to allow some light in, but the sun still seems to be hidden away.

Emma wanders the room rifling through drawers and shelves, content to have something to occupy her mind. She finds an oil lantern hanging from the ceiling by the door; near it, tucked into a crevasse in the wall, is a box of matches.

There's a shelf of books; most seem to be tales of sailing, though she finds several maps and what she believes to be an instruction manual on the intricacies of knot tying. She brings it with her over to the bed and settles on the mattress with her back pressed against the wall.

A couple hours must have passed when she hears a knock at her door and the man enters carrying a large tray of food. He's in different clothes now and his dark hair looks damp, combed carelessly to one side. He sits the food on the bed next to her and drags the chair from the desk over to join her. There's salted meat and dried bread and some sort of pickled vegetable. Her stomach growls loudly.

"Thought you might be hungry lass. I know it's not much but..." he stops midsentence and Emma barely hears him as she reaches for a handful, stuffing what she assumes is salted beef into her mouth. She hasn't even finished chewing the meat when she grabs a piece of bread and takes a large bite.

The man chuckles, watching her with amusement on his face. "And here I thought princesses where supposed to have table manners."

Emma looks up at him and grins sheepishly around a mouthful of food. She holds his gaze and covers her mouth as she finishes chewing.

"Sorry, it's just, I haven't eaten anything with flavour in years," she says as she swallows.

He looks almost shocked at the sound of her voice but quickly recovers.

"Alas, she speaks! I was beginning to think you might've been a mute. What _did_ you eat all those years on that godforsaken island, lass?"

"Some sort of awful gruel, magically appeared every afternoon and tasted like parchment, but it's not like I had any other choice," she says bitterly and it's like the flood gates have opened, words spilling forth, and now that she's started, she can't stop talking.

"Do you have a name?" she asks. "And what kind of ship is this? Doesn't look like a naval vessel. How far are we from my kingdom? Do you know my parents? Are they okay? What about the Evil Queen? And why do you have a hook?"

She has so many questions but the man looks slight taken aback and she realizes in her haste to ask them, that she hasn't exactly come across as gracious. He's been nothing but kind to her thus far and she really should be more thankful.

He begins to talk but she cuts him off.

"Look, I'm sorry if I come off a little crass, but I haven't exactly had much opportunity to practice the art of conversation lately and I've never really been one for tact and I just have so many questions, but I'm really truly grateful and I need to thank you for rescuing me and I need to apologise for your crew," her breath hitches and all her control slips away as the words flow unbidden from her lips "they're all dead because of me and I wish things could be different and I don't deserve any of your kindness, so many people have died trying to rescue me over the years and I'm so, so sorry..." she trails off, wiping at her eyes with her sleeves in a futile attempt to stop the tears that gather, threatening to fall.

Her eyes are cast downwards and she's focusing intently on the crisscross weave pattern of her pants when his hand comes to rest gently against her knee for the briefest of moments.

"It'll be alright, love. Just take a deep breath and I'll answer as many questions as I can." His voice is soft, his head titled down, and blue eyes lined in kohl (she hadn't noticed before) are trying to catch her gaze.

Emma snuffles, and he hands her a cloth so she can wipe her nose. When she finally looks up at him, he grins at her and she finds that the corners of her mouth curve up without her permission.

"Shall I start with my name, lass?" he asks. "Perhaps tell you about my ship?"

"Yeah, that would be good," she replies and he leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on the bed next to her.

"My name is Killian Jones, though most call me by my more colourful moniker," he holds up his left arm and waves his hook in the air, "Captain Hook." He pauses. "I take it you've never heard of me?"

She frowns and shakes her head. "Been living under a rock. _Literally_. Remember?"

He has the decency to look chastised.

"Well this fine vessel you're on is the Jolly Roger and no, she is not a naval vessel. Leastways not any longer. She's a pirate ship now and I, lass, am her Captain."

"A pirate?" she asks, a little frightened. That explains the clothing. She may have been locked up for years but even as a child her father told her stories of ruthless pirates, pillaging and plundering, killing and thieving.

"It's alright love, you don't have to be frightened. No harm will come to you whilst you're under my protection. I may be a pirate and a thief, but I live by a code and believe in good form. I have never attacked a man who cannot defend himself, nor have I killed without good reason, and I would never _ever_ bed a woman without her express consent. You're perfectly safe."

Emma doesn't know why she believes him, but she does. It's just a feeling in her gut and she chooses to trust it.

"How long will it take us to get back to my kingdom? You are planning to take me back to my parents, right?"

"Of course lass. There's a port about a week from here. We'll stop there to restock. We can get you some proper clothing too if you'd like. Then it's about a month's sail to the port nearest your kingdom."

Emma is shocked and a little disappointed. She had no idea she was so far from home. Apparently Killian can read the disappointment on her face because he's leaning forward and touching her knee again.

"Don't fret Emma, think of it as an adventure," he suggests. "After all, how many princesses have the opportunity to sail the seas with a devilishly handsome pirate?"

He's all charm and she finds herself frowning for no reason other than to fight the smile that tugs at her lips.

"Wait. How do you know my name?" she asks.

"Half the realm knows your name, lass. I admit I only learned of it recently, but your parents have spent the last nine and a half years offering great reward to anyone who can safely bring you home."

"So you only rescued me for the coin?" She's a little insulted, but the man is a pirate after all.

"Not just for the coin, love, I've got plenty of that. I've found my life lacking meaning of late and decided that I needed to take things in a new direction," he says, running his hand through his unruly locks.

"And that new direction cost you your entire crew," Emma says frowning. "I really am sorry for that. I never wanted to be rescued at the expense of so many lives."

This time he reaches out and takes her hand. She wants to pull away but his skin is so warm and his words are so kind and she longs for the comfort of gentle reassurance.

"It's not your fault love. They understood what they signed up for and if anyone is to blame, it's the Evil Queen. Let the guilt of their deaths rest at her feet, not yours."

She nods, vision swimming with tears again. He remains holding her hand for a moment longer and she's so very grateful for the contact after so many years alone.

Soon Killian stands. "I'd best get back above. You should finish your food. If you need anything, I'll be at the helm."

Emma stands quickly and before he can turn and walk away, she grabs his hand again, squeezing it tightly.

"Thank you, Killian."

"Think nothing of it, love."


	4. Chapter Three

A/N: I had every intention of posting this chapter yesterday evening, I swear it, but then that damn music video had to come out, yeah you know the one, and if you don't, you had better head over to YouTube right now and search for: Christina Perri – The Words [Official Video].

Colin O'Donoghue shirtless. _Good god_. Needless to say I was more than a little distracted.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourited/followed this story so far. I'm always interested in hearing what you think, so please do leave a review!

* * *

><p>The day is almost over when Snow and David make their weekly trip across the frost covered palace yard, through the gates and over the bridge into the forest. They never talk during these evenings: it's a silent ritual filled with pain and sadness.<p>

When Emma was first taken, they had spent every night with their eyes glued to the shard of mirror held between them. Snow isn't sure exactly when it happened, but one night David took the mirror from her hands, slipped it into a velvet pouch and said enough was enough.

Since that night, so long ago, they've made practice of only looking at the shard once a week; just long enough to ensure that their daughter is still alive.

The guilt eats at her every day, a festering wound that refuses to heal, but she understands why David refuses to put them through such misery more than once a week; they're still king and queen after all, they have responsibilities that cannot be ignored in favour of wallowing in grief.

When they reach the small wooden shack in the forest, David opens the door and escorts her in. The building is little more than four walls: a windowless room with a table and chairs in the center. They sit down and Snow watches as her husband slides the mirror from the velvet bag. He sits it on the table in front of them and takes her hand.

They sit waiting, as they always do, but tonight, when the sky darkens and the moon rises, the mirror remains empty.

Snow looks up at her husband. "Is she...? David, why can't we see her?" Her voice is high and panicked.

"I don't know. Maybe," he pauses and a faint glimmer of hope flickers in his eyes, "maybe someone got to her, maybe she's been rescued."

* * *

><p>Killian stands at the helm as the day ends.<p>

It has turned out to be a beautiful evening and a crisp breeze propels the Jolly Roger effortlessly through the water. The sky in front of him is a brightly lit myriad of colours where the sun slowly descends toward the horizon. It's times like this, when he's headed west with a stiff wind at his back that the sunset seems to last forever; his ship chasing after it, prolonging the experience. Behind him the sky is darkening and he can see the crescent moon over his left shoulder.

His mind drifts to the princess below as he leans heavily against the wheel. She's beautiful and damaged, but fierce and a little bit sarcastic. Nothing at all like what he imagined she would be. He's not sure what he expected exactly, but it certainly wasn't this. In the brief moments he's spent with her, Killian finds that he enjoys her company far more than he expected to.

Tomorrow he'll be sure to bring her up on deck and show her around. Earlier he had noticed that she was reading an old book on knot tying and he would be more than happy to teach her a few of the easier ones. _Of course there are other more enjoyable activities..._ Killian stops the thought right there and shakes his head.

He's hardly spent an hour in her presence and already she's having far too much of an effect on him. He cannot afford to be thinking of a princess in such ways.

Killian uncorks his flask and takes a swig of rum. It's been a hell of a day.

He secures the wheel in place and settles down on the deck with his back pressed against a barrel. The sky is a deep blue-black now and the stars have begun to appear. He tilts his head back and watches as they slowly adorn the night sky: diamonds glittering against a sea of black satin.

Dozing lightly, he drifts in and out of slumber as his ship rocks gently beneath him. He briefly contemplates heading down to his cabin, but he's quite comfortable where he is with the salty breeze blowing through his hair. Closing his eyes again, he allows the sea to lull him to sleep.

* * *

><p>Killian is on his feet, cutlass in hand before his sleep addled mind fully registers what woke him. He looks around puzzled, searching for the source of the noise. There's another scream, louder this time, originating from below and a few of the glass windows lining the crew quarters shatter in succession, loud cracks echoing across the water.<p>

He looks around, scanning the surrounding sea and his ship, but they're alone, no danger in sight. Perhaps the lass had a nightmare. He's had his fair share over the years; waking up in a cold sweat, scream stuck in his throat. That hardly explains the broken glass though, so he sheathes his cutlass and heads below deck to Emma's quarters.

"Emma, lass? Is everything alright?" he asks, but there's no response.

He tries to open the door but she must have it locked, so he knocks loudly against the wood. "Let me in love. I just want to make sure you're alright."

Her voice is quiet when she speaks, further muted by the wooden door and he barely hears it. "I'm fine. Go away."

* * *

><p>Emma stills when she hears his voice at her door. It's soft and full of concern. "Emma, lass? Is everything alright?"<p>

The door rattles when he tries to open it, but she has it locked. He knocks against the door loudly, but when he speaks again his voice is still gentle and reassuring.

"Let me in love. I just want to make sure you're alright."

She doesn't want him to see her like this. She knows what she looks like after sundown and it's not a pretty sight.

"I'm fine. Go away," she calls, but knows immediately that her voice doesn't sound very convincing.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, love."

The door handle rattles again.

"Just open the door and show me that you're alright, then I'll leave you be if you wish."

"Go away!" she repeats, more firmly this time.

Emma hears him sigh through the door. "I'll give you one last chance to open this door, lass." His voice is deeper, frustration lacing his words.

She remains silent hoping maybe he'll give up and go away.

"No?" he asks. "I'm coming in now."

She hears the sound of metal scraping against metal and the latch turns. Emma tries to hold the door shut with her weight against it but he's far stronger than she is and he easily pushes inside.

She turns her back to him and moves into the shadows near the bed, trying to hide her face, but he'll have none of it. Killian reaches out and catches her arm, spinning her around to face him. When his eyes settle upon her face he looks shocked but that's all there is. No fear, no disgust. His hand remains cupping her elbow but his grip loosens.

"Is this why you wouldn't let me in, love?" he asks quietly.

His eyes search her face and she drops her gaze to the floor, embarrassed. His hand moves to the underside of her chin, gently prompting her to look at him.

"Afraid I was going to scream like a little girl and run away?" He smiles at her. "I'm a pirate, lass. I've lived a long time and seen many horrors. Your face is not one of them, trust me."

She wants to believe him, but it's not easy.

Emma notices him look over her shoulder at the bed. She follows his gaze and notices that there's broken glass all over it.

"Perhaps we'd better find you another cabin, lass? One without a window, Aye?" Killian's eyes sparkle with kindly humor and she finds herself following him down the narrow passage to another room.

The layout is nearly identical to the last but the bunk is larger and this one lacks a window. Killian walks around the room, lighting a couple lanterns. When he finishes, he takes a seat at the desk and gestures for her to sit in the second chair.

She sits and he removes an oddly shaped bottle from his jacket pocket, taking a drink of the liquid and then offering it to her.

Emma takes it hesitantly. "What is it?"

"Rum, love. Take a small sip to start."

She does and inhales sharply, coughing as the liquid burns a trail down her throat, warming her belly. After the initial burn subsides, she finds that the sensation isn't nearly as unpleasant.

"Packs quite a punch, doesn't it?"

She nods, handing the flask back to him. He takes another swig and sets it upon the desk.

"Care to tell me a little bit about this curse of yours?" he asks.

She's not sure where to start, so she begins with what he must have already surmised. "Every evening when the sun sets, I transform into this... and I stay this way until sun rise."

"There's more, is there not?" The man really is ridiculously perceptive.

"I have these visions, of people dying. They aren't constant. Some nights are better than others. Sometimes only a couple people die." Emma hesitates and he passes the flask back to her. She takes another sip (this one goes down easier) and continues.

"There has even been the odd night where no one dies, but those don't happen often. When I was first cursed, just a kid, I used to fall asleep between the visions but that made it even worse. At least if I'm awake, I can be prepared for what I might see. So now, I just don't sleep at all until morning."

Killian takes her thin hand in his own and her skin looks even paler against his. "I'm sorry, love. That's a terrible fate."

"That's not the worst of it," she says, sighing. "I didn't know it at first, but over time as rescue attempts arrived, I discovered that what I was seeing each night wasn't happening in that very moment. I was merely foreseeing what would occur the next day."

Her voice falters and Killian squeezes her hand. "I could see all these people who were slotted to die the next day and could do nothing to warn them or prevent it."

"It's not your duty to prevent death, lass," he replies. "You can hardly spend your days running around the realm, hoping to locate and warn every soul you saw the night before."

Logically she knows that, but it doesn't assuage the guilt, the nagging feeling that she should be able to prevent the inevitable.

"I know that. I do. But it doesn't make any of this easier."

She brings the flask up to her lips and takes several large swallows until Killian's hand comes up and removes it from her grasp.

"Wouldn't recommend overdoing it, love. I don't imagine you've much experience with libation."

Emma frowns. "I don't have much experience with anything. If it weren't for the visions and a rickety old shelf of books, I'd probably still have the knowledge of a ten year old."

Killian stands suddenly and takes her hand, pulling her from the room and up toward the deck. She's not sure why, but once again she follows him willingly.

* * *

><p>Emma follows his lead as he brings her above deck. He stops when they reach the helm and she pulls the heavy cloak tightly around her body. There's an unearthly glow about her that has little to do with the moonlight shining bright above them. Killian studies her face: the colour is gone from her skin and her features are harsh, but the wind blows her silver-white locks wildly around her face, but he doesn't find that the curse diminishes her beauty at all.<p>

Killian motions to an empty spot over by the barrels. "Have a seat over there lass. There's less wind and the view is better."

"The view?" she asks, confused.

"Of the stars, love."

He sits down next to her and hands her a blanket to cover her legs.

"Look up."

He watches Emma as she leans her head back against the barrel and takes in the night sky with a gasp.

He knows there's very little in this world that can match the breathtaking beauty of a starlit sky at sea. Millions of twinkling lights are scattered across the heavens; dustings of gold and silver fire illuminating the darkness.

"Brilliant isn't it?"

She looks at him and nods, her eyes wide.

"I've never seen anything like it," she says in awe.

"I don't doubt it. The stars take on a life of their own out here at sea." Killian pulls a small leather-bound notebook from a hidden compartment by the helm. "Do you know anything of the constellations, lass?"

Emma shakes her head and Killian opens the well worn book.

"This one here is called Equuleus, also known as the little horse. It's one of the smallest constellations." He shows her the pattern of stars in the book, and then guides her sight to the same ones in the sky.

"It is said that Hippe, daughter of Chiron the centaur was seduced and impregnated by Aeolus. Too afraid to tell her father, Hippe escaped to the mountains where she stayed hidden until she gave birth to a child named Melanippe."

Emma looks slightly confused, but listens raptly, eyes focused on him so he continues.

"When her father came searching for her, Hippe prayed to the gods that she wouldn't be found, so the gods transformed her into a mare. It was then that the goddess Artemis placed Hippe among the stars. To this day, she still hides there, only her head visible behind Pegasus."

Killian flips to the next page and points out the Pegasus constellation. "Pegasus was said to be a white horse with wings that could fly great distances."

Emma appears enthralled by the tales. It seems he's succeeded in leading her mind from her curse, so he flips through the book to another constellation.

"There was a queen named Cassiopeia and she bragged and bragged to all who would listen that she was more beautiful than all of the sea nymphs. The sea nymphs were enraged by her claims, so they asked Poseidon, the great god of the sea, to punish her."

Killian hears Emma chuckle and watches as she slides down, lying on the deck to get a better view of the stars, bundling the blanket under her head. When she's settled, he continues.

"Poseidon agreed and sent Cetus, a great and terrible sea monster to ravage the coast of Cassiopeia's kingdom. In a desperate bid to prevent the sea monster from devastating the kingdom, Cassiopeia's husband Cepheus contacted an oracle for help. The oracle told them that to save the kingdom they would have to sacrifice their daughter Andromeda to the monster."

"These people have weird names," Emma comments seriously and Killian looks down at her again. Her eyes are still open, focused on the stars above, but she looks like sleep might claim her any moment.

"Shall I continue, lass?"

"Mhmm," she mumbles.

"Cassiopeia and Cepheus saw no other option and left Andromeda chained to a rock at sea for Cetus to find."

It strikes him too late that perhaps this wasn't the best story selection; too closely resembling her own, what with a princess trapped at sea, but he continues anyway.

"Thankfully a lovely fellow named Perseus came along and rescued Andromeda before the monster could claim her. In the end, Poseidon placed Cassiopeia and Cepheus in the sky. Cassiopeia condemned to circle the celestial pole for an eternity; half of each year spent upside down, clinging to her chair as punishment for her vanity."

By the time he finishes the story, Emma is sound asleep, curled on her side, facing his hip.

The night is still upon them, but if he looks to the east for long enough, he can see the barely distinguishable lightening of the sky. Sunrise is still an hour away and he hopes that at this point, Emma won't be awoken by a vision. He sits quietly, allowing her to sleep, listening to the gentle inhale and exhale of her breath. His mind wanders to his crew, memories of their time together all he has left now that they're buried at sea, like so many others he's cared for.

Eventually the night retreats, the sky a stunning shade of hazy lavender, and when the sun peaks over the horizon, he watches as Emma's features transform.

The colour rushes back into her skin, leaving her cheeks full and flushed, and just as quickly, her hair changes, renewed to its golden glory. He tucks a loose strand behind her ear and kneels next to her. He really needs to sleep and at this point, he would prefer to do so in his bed.

Ever so gently, Killian hoists Emma into his arms, trying not to wake her. She stirs briefly but her eyes remain closed as he carries her down to her cabin. He settles her on the bed, removes her boots, and covers her with a blanket.

He extinguishes the lanterns, plunging the cabin into darkness and closes the door quietly behind him.

Moments later, when he falls into his own bed and his head hits the pillow, sleep claims him instantly.

* * *

><p>When Emma wakes up, she's warm and cozy, tucked in under a blanket on her bunk. She's confused at first, she doesn't remember falling asleep and she most certainly doesn't remember returning to the cabin. All she remembers is lying on the deck, looking at the stars and listening to the soft cadence of Killian's voice as he told her stories she didn't completely understand about the legends behind the constellations.<p>

She must have fallen asleep while he talked. Did he carry her to bed? He must have. Her feet are bare, her boots tucked away neatly beside the bed. Emma sits slowly and stretches. This is probably the best sleep she's had in years and she knows that she doesn't just have the soft mattress to thank.

Standing, Emma shoves her feet into her boots. Her stomach is growling and she leaves her quarters, hoping that Killian is already awake.

He's sitting on a barrel by the helm and notices her instantly as she climbs up onto the deck.

"Afternoon, lass," he calls, "I trust you slept well?"

"Afternoon?" Emma looks up to where the sun sits directly overhead. Apparently that wasn't _just_ the best sleep she's had in years, it was also the longest.

"Uh, yeah I did, thank you." She blushes at the thought of him carrying her and tucking her into bed.

"My pleasure, love," Killian says with a wink, arching his eyebrow, causing her blush to deepen.

"If you're hungry lass, I've some food up here already, come join me." He pats the barrel next to him.

She sits beside him and together they eat in companionable silence. When the food is finished, Killian stands and moves to the wheel.

"Your timing is impeccable, love," he tells her, steering hard left and she nearly tumbles from her perch on the barrel. "There's something over here you'll want to see."

One moment the ship is gliding quickly through the waves, the next it sits almost stationary, bobbing gently in the surf.

Killian jumps down a level and offers his hand to aid her decent. She takes it and he guides her to the edge of the ship.

Off the right side of the ship Emma can see a small island stretching off into the distance. It's long and narrow, little more than pale sand and grassy dunes. Killian pulls the spyglass from his jacket and extends it before handing it to her. The magnified view of the island is even more beautiful; pale sand sparkles in the sun and gossamer grass blows gently in the breeze as seabirds soar weightlessly on wind currents overhead. Killian directs her gaze further east and she sees a small herd of wild horses grazing.

She hasn't seen horses in years and gods does she miss them. Excitement fills her chest and she turns to Killian, smiling widely.

"Can we go see them?" she pleads, feeling like a little girl again.

"We really shouldn't delay, lass. It's a long ways back to your kingdom and I don't want to keep you from your parents any longer than necessary."

"Please? Just for a while." She can tell he's considering it. "I used to love riding horses and it's been so long since I've seen one." She pouts and he caves instantly.

"Oh, alright love, if it means that much to you." The irritation is his tone is false and she can see the slight smile playing against his lips.

* * *

><p>In the small boat, Killian rows them toward the sandy shore and he can't help but notice how Emma's eyes light up as they draw closer.<p>

She certainly has the body of a woman, and he imagines that due to her visions, she's experienced more death and trauma than anyone should in several lifetimes. She's not a child any longer, but the joy in her eyes at the prospect of seeing the horses, lights her face with such pure unrefined delight, that he finds himself aching for something he can't even name.

And that pout she gave him; her lower lip sticking out, eyes looking up at him from under hooded lids. He was left powerless, unable to deny her such a simple wish.

When they reach the shore, he hops into the shallow water to drag the boat up onto the sand. The sun is strong and the breeze warm, the island a strange drop of tropical paradise in a vast sea of cold waters. Killian discards his jacket in the boat and Emma does the same with her cloak.

It doesn't take long to walk along the beach to where the horses graze in the grassy dunes. When they are close, Killian sinks down onto the sand to watch.

"Go ahead, lass. I'll wait here," he tells her and Emma discards her boots next to him in the sand, smiling.

The horses are wild and have probably never seen a human before, but he watches as Emma walks slowly toward them. A powerful gust tosses Emma's hair wildly about her face and the horses raise their heads, catching her scent on the wind. For a moment he thinks they might turn and flee, but their hooves remain firmly planted in the grass, eyes watching Emma with cautious interest.

Her approach is slow and non-threatening. She steps sideways, not facing them head-on and when she stands mere feet away from a beautiful black and white mare, she stops with her eyes cast downward.

For nearly five minutes she stands perfectly still, waiting patiently. Eventually the mare reaches out to sniff her hand and Killian watches a tender smile ghost across her lips. When the mare lifts her muzzle to Emma's face, softly snorting and nuzzling her cheek, Emma raises her hand and strokes the horse's neck affectionately.

Soon the other horses approach, seemingly convinced that she's not a danger. Emma takes her time petting each one of them, rubbing their faces and combing her fingers through their manes.

When she's done, the horses return to grazing and she walks slowly back over to him. Her eyes shine and her cheeks are wet with tears but she has the brightest smile on her face.

She sits next to him in the sand and places her hand on his arm. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>AN: Bonus points to anyone who can name the real-life island that I've based this fictional one on. ;)


	5. Chapter Four

A/N: The real-life island I based the one in the last chapter on is called Sable Island. A small island off the coast of Nova Scotia, Canada, with fascinating history and geography.

* * *

><p>After leaving the small sand island, the next several days are uneventful. Emma wakes late most mornings and spends her afternoons on deck reading. Killian keeps busy during the day, often cleaning and maintaining the Jolly Roger. Occasionally he points out an interesting sight in the distance or fills her head with tidbits of information regarding his ship.<p>

In the evenings, just before the sun sets, Emma says goodnight and retreats to her cabin. And each time, as she heads below to endure her curse in solitude, his words follow her, "If you need me, love, you know where to find me."

The visions haven't been terrible lately; the last few nights consisting mainly of natural deaths and accidents. His words are kind but she's dealt with this long enough on her own; she doesn't need him to hold her hand and coddle her.

It's past noon when Emma heads above deck, wrapping her cloak tightly around her body to ward off the damp chill. The sky is dark grey and menacing clouds loom on the horizon. The air is still and heavy, laden with moisture. The ship glides smoothly through the waves and she looks to the helm but Killian is not perched in his usual spot atop the barrels.

A loud crack of thunder rumbles in the distance, echoing across the waves and she returns her gaze to the sea. A flash of lightning follows soon after, brightening the heavens in a brief fiery blaze. She watches as the clouds billow out, tumbling closer, spilling over themselves as they multiply and grow darker.

"There you are, love." Killian appears beside her, resting his leather clad forearms against the rail. "Checked your cabin but you were gone. Hope you weren't waiting long?"

She shakes her head. "Only been up here a few minutes."

Killian grins at her. "Was down below battening the hatches and patching those broken windows." He returns his gaze to sea. "Storm's rolling in."

Another boom of thunder reverberates across the water and rain drops begin to fall slowly, one by one pattering upon the deck.

"The wind and the waves shouldn't be an issue, my ship will stay on course, but if you intend to stay dry love, I'd suggest we head below now." As soon as the words leave his mouth, thunder sounds again and the heavens open, downpour released in a torrential fury.

Yelping, Emma wraps the cloak around her, pulling it over her head as they bolt below deck. When they're out of the rain, she removes her cloak and Killian closes the latch behind them. The heavy woolen fabric is drenched, but her clothing and hair underneath remain fairly dry.

Killian shakes the rain from his hair and cold droplets spray against her face. "Hey!" she says, indignant. "What do you think you are? A wet dog?"

He shakes again, pelting her with more water. "Woof." His eyebrow lifts, blue eyes sparkling with mischief and she punches him lightly in the shoulder, unable to keep a smile at bay.

"You're an idiot," Emma says laughing.

"A charismatic and devilishly handsome idiot though, Aye?" he prods.

She pauses for a moment, looking him up and down, pretending to think about it, and then shakes her head. "Nah, just an idiot." She tosses a playful smile over her shoulder and continues down the narrow passage toward the food storage.

Killian ditches his long leather jacket and jogs down the hall after her. He catches her around the arm with his hook, spinning her to face him. "Grab us some food love, then come join me in my quarters." He leaves the invitation vague and she hesitates, unsure of what exactly he's expecting from her. Surely he doesn't want her to...

He must sense her uncertainty because he takes pity on her and clarifies his request. "I've a board game I think you'll like, love. Can't play it all by my lonesome. It'll help pass the time while this storm blows over."

She nods and he turns down the hall, disappearing into his cabin.

Emma grabs a small jar of pickled beets, some dried bread and a couple portions of salted meat before heading back down the passage to his quarters. He'd shown her its location after the first night but she's never actually looked inside.

The door is open and she stands outside hesitantly, almost feeling as if she should knock. A warm glow emanates from several lanterns hanging inside the room, creating a cozy ambience.

"Come in, lass," he says, "have a seat."

Killian is seated at a small round table; his vest discarded on the bed behind him along with a rag he must have used to dry his hair. His dark locks are damp and dishevelled, and the thin cotton of his black blouse clings to his shoulders, collar popped with enough buttons undone to reveal the thicket of his chest hair. (She wonders if it's as soft as it looks).

_Okay_, Emma admits (but only to herself); _the man is devilishly handsome_. He clearly knows it too, and his ego most definitely does not need to hear her say it.

"You can stare as long as you like, love, but I'd appreciate if you brought the food over here first. I'm famished."

"What- how?" Emma blushes fiercely and stammers as she sets the food on the table and takes a seat in the other chair.

"Open book, love. You hardly have to speak. Every thought, it's all right there on your lovely face."

She groans and he laughs quietly. "Don't fret, love, I'd be more worried if you didn't find me attractive."

"I don't," she protests, but he raises an eyebrow and she just rolls her eyes, reaches for a piece of bread and stuffs it in her mouth.

When the food is gone, Killian leaves his room to return the tray to the kitchen and fetch some rum.

Emma takes the opportunity to study his cabin from her seat; she doesn't want to be caught snooping. The bed isn't much larger than the one in her quarters, but the blankets covering it are a soft black and rich crimson and several pillows line the head of the bunk. There's a small desk with shelves built into the wall, holding books and scrolls and various knickknacks. Two large trunks sit against the opposite wall and there's a curtained off area where she can see a large wooden tub peaking out.

She would kill for an actual bath; to submerge her body in warm water, to close her eyes and soak for a while. She stares longingly at the tub.

"Fancy a long...hot...languorous...soak...love?" His lips caress each word as they roll off his tongue; dirty and dripping with innuendo.

Emma startles, shifting in her seat to face him. The damned man is far too stealthy. He seriously needs to stop sneaking up on her. He also needs to stop saying things like that. _In that voice_. She may be inexperienced. Okay... totally lacking in any experience whatsoever, but she's not stupid. She's seen more than enough in her visions over the years to understand much of the mechanics and emotions behind sex. She knows what his tone implies. But she also trusts that he would never act upon it without her permission. He may be a shameless flirt, but he has also proven himself to be a gentleman.

The smile on his face is teasing and she laughs, refusing to let him get to her.

"So, you said something about wanting to play a board game?"

"Aye." He nods and rummages through one of the trunks, returning to the table with a large circular game.

The board is made of polished golden cherry wood and there's a lowered reservoir around the outer rim. Three concentric rings are painted on the board, the innermost interspersed with metal pegs. In the very center there's a shallow hole.

Emma grins widely. "Crokinole," she says, naming the game.

The pirate is in for a challenge; she spent countless hours as a young girl playing this with her father.

"You've played?" Killian asks.

"A few times," she fibs and reaches for the lighter coloured birch-wood discs.

Killian collects the darker reddish-purple rose-wood discs.

"What shall we play to, love? First to 100 wins?" He takes out a piece of parchment and marks their names down at the top in ink with a small quill.

Thunder rumbles loudly overhead and she can hear the rain pounding against the ship. "Make it 150," she says, grinning at him. "Doubt we're heading back up on deck any time soon."

Killian takes a large gold coin from his pocket. "Your call, lass."

"Tails," she calls as he tosses it in the air. He catches it in his hand and places it down on the table. An unknown crest faces up and he chuckles. "Alright love, you shoot first."

Emma places a disc on the shooting line of her quadrant, bending in her chair so that she's eye-level with the board. An easy flick of her finger sends the disc gliding smoothly across the board and into the 20-point target.

Killian raises an eyebrow and she grins smugly at him, removing her piece and sitting it aside to be tallied up at the end of the round.

Killian takes his shot with a bit too much force and it skips right over the 20-point hole to sit at the edge of the 15-point zone, fairly well protected by the metal pegs.

The next shot is trickier because her piece has to make contact with his piece on the board. She bends again and assesses her options. With her mind made up she crouches at the edge of the table and flicks her disc across the board. It makes contact with a metal peg and redirects to slam into Killian's piece; his skitters across the board into the 5-point zone and hers takes its place in the 15-point.

The look on his face is incredulous. "I think you've been telling lies, love. Only played a few times?"

"Only a few times..." she pauses, "a week. Although that was nearly a decade ago, so I'm hardly at an unfair advantage."

As the storm rages on outside, they battle through round after round and Emma emerges victorious; the final tally, 155 to 110.

"Best two out of three, love?" He grins, gathering his pieces. "Give a man the chance to redeem himself?"

She concedes (it's still raining hard and she's having fun, so why not?) and they play on. Killian takes the second round 160 to 130, and Emma wins the final match 150 to 145.

He extends his hand in a show of good sportsmanship and she takes it.

"Good game, lass."

His palm is warm and rough against her own; rings cold and smooth in contrast. His right sleeve is bunched up, exposing his forearm. On the inside, just above his wrist is a tattoo of a heart with a dagger through it. A scroll loops around it and _Milah_ is printed in bold letters.

Curious, she turns his hand in hers, shifting his arm to get a better look. "Who's Milah?"

As soon as she mentions the name, he drops her hand and yanks his sleeve back down to cover the tattoo.

Sadness and guilt and hatred flash across his face and she instantly regrets asking. The silence that settles between them is intense and uncomfortable. She never was any good at keeping her mouth shut, at thinking before speaking.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

Killian sighs. "It's alright, love. She was someone from a long time ago." He doesn't explain further so she drops the matter.

Emma decides that asking about their destination is probably a safe topic. "How soon do you think we'll reach land? Where will we be stopping?"

"Should reach port tomorrow morning. It's a small town and it's far away from your kingdom but think it would be best if you stayed below deck."

Emma protests immediately. "I'm not staying hidden away while you gallivant around town!"

"Look, love, I know it's not ideal, but I've no clue how far the Evil Queen's spies reach. By now, she has to know you've been rescued and I can't risk you being recognized by the wrong sort," he tells her, clearly concerned. "I won't be gone long, I just need to procure some additional supplies, and then we can be on our way."

He looks apologetic and she knows that he's trying to protect her, but she's spent almost half of her life locked away in a prison and she'll be damned if she's going to spend another moment that way.

"I'll disguise myself," she offers. "Plus, no one but you knows what I look like now anyway. I'll keep a low profile, but I'm coming with you. I've been a prisoner for too long, don't you dare threaten to lock me up as well!"

Frustration and annoyance swell in her chest, pressing hard against her breastbone.

"Love..." Killian reaches for her hand, trying to placate her, but she pulls it back and stands angrily, her chair tumbling to the floor as her fists come down hard against the table.

"No!" Her temper flairs. "You may be my rescuer and I may be a princess, but I am not some helpless damsel that needs to be locked away and coddled."

He looks stunned by her outburst but she continues. "I am coming with you and we can get whatever supplies you need together. Then we are going to eat a hot meal. And after that, we're going to find a bow and some arrows and I'll show you just how much of a princess I am not."

Emma breathes heavily, glaring at him, waiting for a response.

When his voice comes, it's soft, defeated. "Alright, love."

His hand covers her fist on the table and she looks down at it. Underneath his hand, hers is pale white, boney and thin; the transformation to her cursed self completed without her noticing.

Emma is about to speak again, but the words die abruptly on her tongue when a vision begins.

There's a small log cabin in the forest. A weary looking mother tucks her four children into bed in the loft, kissing each one goodnight before climbing down a ladder to the ground floor. She stokes the fire in the hearth and lights a candle on the table. She ignites the stove and mixes a large pot of oatmeal before settling into the old rocking chair by the fireplace. The mother pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from her pocket and traces the face drawn on it lovingly as tears trail down her cheeks. She sobs silently into her sleeve and soon falls into an exhausted sleep.

Emma watches in horror as the neglected oatmeal on the stove boils rapidly. The pot shakes wildly on the uneven surface and tumbles to the side, knocking over a bottle of cooking oil. The glass bottle breaks, spilling accelerant into the fire on the stove. Flames flare upwards and the curtains catch. The fire spreads from the curtains to the rough wooden cabinets, igniting the contents within. Burning wood falls to the floor and the wicker chest catches next. Soon the entire kitchen is aflame, the blaze climbing its way up the ladder to the loft. The inferno rolls along the floor and when it makes contact with an uncapped container of furniture polish, it explodes in a blast of scorching heat.

The mother wakes suddenly and tries frantically to reach the ladder but her attempts are futile. The children sleep soundly above, unconscious, slowly suffocated by thick clouds of black smoke. The mother is chased from the cottage as the flames rage hotter and higher. She falls to her knees on the cold ground outside and watches helplessly as her home and her children burn before her. Snow falls softly from the sky, swirling, mixing with smoke and ash and fire. The mother screams, and Emma screams with her.

* * *

><p>"Love..." His voice is soft and he's trying his best to convince Emma that it's not safe for her to be out and about in the town tomorrow, but she's having none of it. He reaches for her hand, trying to calm her but it only enrages her further. She stands, knocking her chair over and slamming her fists against the table as she argues; fierce and passionate.<p>

She's so caught up in her tirade that she doesn't even notice the transformation into her cursed image taking place. When she finishes speaking, she stands there, chest heaving under the weight of her fury, waiting for him to respond.

He's beginning to see a pattern here; he has a very hard time saying no to the lass. Killian sighs, defeated.

"Alright, love." He covers her tightly clenched fist with his hand and she looks down.

He watches the knowledge of her transformation finally register on her face and she returns her gaze to his, about to speak when her focus is suddenly torn away.

Emma's eyes focus on an unseen image, her gaze following a series of events that are invisible to him. He remains silent, watching her closely, looking for any clue as to what she is observing, but it could be any number of things and he really has no way of knowing.

Over several minutes, her expression shifts from mild interest, to worry, then slowly transitions into terror.

Killian stands, wanting to comfort her but she doesn't even seem aware of his presence. Tears stream down her pale face and when her knees crumple with a sob, he catches her in his arms, sliding to the ground with her. He sits awkwardly on the floor with her half seated in his lap and she closes her lids tightly, eyes still darting frantically underneath. Her breath hitches and she whimpers quietly.

Slumping heavily against him, Emma turns her face against his shoulder, fists clenching in his shirt and screams.

The sound of her cry settles in his chest, clawing at his heart, threatening to tear him to pieces.

Warm and wet, her tears seep though the thin cotton of his shirt as she quiets. He combs his fingers through her silken ivory locks, trying to soothe her. He wishes he could remove the burden of her curse from her shoulders; pick it up and toss it aside. At the very least, he wishes he could carry it himself, even for a night to give her respite from the horror she lives with.

The Jolly Roger rocks gently beneath them, unfaltering in its journey through the tempest. Rain still falls in a soft drumbeat against the deck above, but the harsh intensity of before is gone, left behind in the tumult of the storm.

Emma is quiet now, still pressed against his chest but her grip on his shirt has loosened. His knee aches from sitting in an unnatural position on the hard wooden floor and his thigh is numb where her weight presses it into the ground; his foot prickling with pins and needles. He shifts, desperately needing to move somewhere more comfortable, and Emma's fists tighten against the fabric of his shirt.

"It's alright love, I'm not going to leave, but can we please move off the floor? I can't feel my arse."

His comment pulls the slightest hint of a smile to her lips and she nods, standing and offering her hand to help him up.

He hobbles gracelessly to the bunk and sits down, massaging his thigh. Emma hesitates and he pats the spot next to him on the bed.

"Have a seat, love."

She sits and the mattress dips bring their thighs into contact. He turns his torso to face her. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk about it?" He's fairly certain he knows what her answer will be, but he offers anyway.

"Not really."

Emma rubs at her eyes and her next words surprise him. "It was bad. There was this woman, a widow, mother to four children; she was exhausted and heartbroken, crying over a drawing of her husband. I recognized his face. He died in battle about a month ago. She put the kids to bed and put some oatmeal on the stove but she fell asleep crying by the fireplace."

Killian can guess how the story ends but he lets her continue, taking her hand in a silent show of support.

"Everything that could have possibly gone wrong did. The kitchen went up in flames and by the time the mother woke up there was no way for her to reach the kids. It was all over so fast. I don't think they felt anything, the smoke reached them first and they never woke up. The woman had to leave the house or she would have burned too." Emma's voice breaks and she squeezes his hand tightly.

"Killian... the poor woman, she sat outside, kneeling on the ground and watched as her home and her children burned. I closed my eyes but it never makes any difference, I can still see everything. I can hear it. God I can even smell it. It's like I'm there but I can't touch anything or save anyone and it doesn't matter how much I yell and scream, they can never hear me." Her words are broken and she sounds breathless.

She isn't crying but the pain in her eyes is intense and overwhelming, so he pulls her to his side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something all the same.

Emma rests her head against his shoulder, hands picking at the hem of her shirt, and he waits for her to collect her thoughts.

"Can I," she breathes, "can I... I just... you didn't see the look on the woman's face. Everyone she loves is dead and she has nothing to live for and I'm terrified that she's going to kill herself, and I just can't..."

"You can stay, love. I won't leave you alone with the possibility of having to watch that."

Emma lifts her head and the look of gratitude in her eyes is so deep and authentic that it nearly bowls him over.

"I meant what I've said every night this past week, lass: If you need me, I'm here."

"Thank you, I... that means a lot." Then she snorts, self-deprecating. "Guess I just ruined the whole badass image I had going there."

"We'll find you a bow tomorrow lass and you can redeem yourself, if you wish," he promises, squeezing her shoulder.

The smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, but he doesn't expect it to. She looks exhausted, bone-weary and he wishes his next words weren't necessary.

"I've to head above deck for a minute, love. You can come with me if you'd like. I just need to alter course slightly and check that the storm hasn't done any damage, won't take but a moment."

Emma follows him above deck, shadowing him as he moves about the ship, retying knots, straightening sails and adjusting course. The rain has passed and a cold wind sweeps in to take its place. It's late in the season and spring waits on winter's doorstep, but he wouldn't be surprised if they get snow tomorrow.

Content that his ship will keep for the night he nods to a heavy-eyed Emma, and they head below deck again, returning to his cabin.

Killian extinguishes the lantern on the table, leaving the one by the bed lit. He lifts a book from the desk and settles at the foot of the bed with his back against the wall.

"C'mere, love." He motions to the bunk. "You look positively knackered."

Emma mirrors his position on the bed, head nodding back against the wooden wall, fighting to keep her eyes open.

"You can sleep, lass. I'll be right here." She smiles at him sleepily, her eyes unfocused.

He opens his book, thumbing through the pages, hardly absorbing the words, his mind focused instead on the rhythmic sound of Emma's breathing. Looking over, her eyes are closed, lids darkened by her curse, pale skin warmed by the golden glow of the lantern.

They sit on top of the blankets, so he retrieves a spare from his trunk, covering her lower body with it.

He detaches his hook from the brace and eases back onto the bed, careful not to wake her. His eyes close as his head rests against the wall, and soon sleep consumes him, blanketing him in calm, dragging him slowly into oblivion.


	6. Chapter Five

A/N: Apologies for not posting on Monday as I usually do. I've started working on another CS fic, a modern AU this time. My muse tossed the idea out there a few days ago and I had no choice but to start writing. I will likely post the first chapter of it tomorrow or the day after, it's called 'Warm Nights & Firelight'. I'll allude to this much; Emma and Killian, summer, horses, and a ranch in the Rockies. ;)

Now onward to this fic. Our lovely duo spend the day on solid land.

* * *

><p>Heat envelops Emma in its snug embrace and slowly pulls her from slumber. She's warm, so warm, and it emanates from the firm body at her back.<p>

Confused, she looks over her shoulder. Killian lies behind her, sleeping soundly with his nose pressed against the hair at the nape of her neck. They're covered with a thick blanket, trapping the heat of their bodies in its toasty cocoon, and his left arm, sans hook is tossed across her waist.

She should feel panicked, embarrassed at the very least; she's sleeping in bed with a man she's known for only a week. The circumstance is innocent enough, but the act itself brings with it a level of intimacy she's never experienced. She feels safe though, and extremely warm. The man is a fucking furnace; heat rolls off of him in waves, warding off the chilly air in the cabin.

She yawns, stretching as her body rouses. She's about to slide from under his arm and leave the bed, when he shifts, tightening his grip on her torso and pulling her securely against his chest. Her back is pressed snuggly against his top half, but space remains between their lower halves.

"G'morning, love." His voice is hoarse and slurred with sleep, and his breath hot against her ear stirs an unfamiliar feeling low in her belly.

"Uh, good morning," she replies and the embarrassment that she was expecting earlier finally arrives to the party.

"Should we head above deck soon? Your ship isn't going to run into land, is it?"

Killian chuckles and his beard scraps against her neck with his words. "No, love, she won't run aground, we're still at least an hour from port. No need to leave the enticing warmth of my embrace just yet."

His words are rife with suggestion but his grip on her has loosened and she doesn't believe he would hold her here against her will.

Emma shifts, flipping over so that they're face to face. She props herself up on her elbow and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from her lungs. His features are infinitely softer in the dim morning light. His hair is an absolute mess, unkempt and falling across his forehead. Stormy blue-grey eyes watch her, and a dopy, boyish half smile graces his lips. He's scruffy and gorgeous and her gaze trails down to his exposed chest hair.

When she looks up, he's watching her with a knowing grin and she blushes, flopping down on her back to stare at the ceiling.

He's not touching her any more, but he's still close and she can feel his eyes on her.

"Have you thought at all about your disguise, love?" he asks. "That golden mane of yours is hardly commonplace."

She sits up against the pillows and contemplates her options for a moment, not really wanting to cut or dye her hair. "Do you have a hat I could wear? I can tuck my hair up under it, maybe use a bit of charcoal to dull the colour. And I'm already in men's clothing; I hardly look like a princess."

Killian nods, looking up at her. "Aye, that should work. And if you'd like, lass, we can get you a couple dresses whist we're in town?"

"I'd actually just prefer some riding clothes, if that's all right? I was, uh, never really one for dresses." She laughs. "Too much fabric. I always felt like I was going to trip over my own feet."

When Emma moves from the bed to stand in the frigid air of the cabin, Killian sits upright, and flips the blanket from his lap, letting it pool at the foot of the bed. She shivers and tries not to notice the outline of him against the fabric of his pants; the leather doing little to conceal his state.

"Go grab your cloak and eat some breakfast, love. I'll bring what you need to your quarters shortly."

He dismisses her with a wicked smile and Emma chokes on her words, unable to respond. She leaves the room, her face beet-red. _Damn him! He knows. He always knows!_

* * *

><p>Emma takes a final look at her appearance in the mirror Killian provided. Her hair is now a dull, dirty blonde, muddied by the charcoal. She knots it loosely atop her head and pulls the dark brown newsboy cap on over top. Dressed in baggy clothes and the drab olive green cloak, she looks positively ordinary.<p>

She steps above deck as the ship slows and Killian expertly sidles it up alongside the docks. The air is crisp and frosty, nipping at her cheeks and nose, and snowflakes fall gently, coating the town in a thin layer of shimmering glitter.

Killian lowers the gangplank and speaks briefly with the harbour master, handing him a hefty pouch of coin, before returning to her side and offering his arm. She takes it and he guides her across the dock and into town.

"What did you pay that man for?" she asks, curious.

"To watch over my ship while we're gone, can't leave a vessel as fine as her unattended. She also needs to be restocked, and I figured there were other, more pleasurable ways for us to spend the day," he says with a teasing smirk. "Shall we begin by acquiring you some new attire, love?"

A cold snowy wind swirls around them and she shivers. "That would be good; I'm not exactly dressed for the weather."

Killian smiles and leads her through the snow-covered streets to a modest shop nestled between two larger ones. The bell above the door dings as they enter and her nostrils are instantly filled with the comforting scent of leather.

Saddles and bridles line the one wall and the other sports an assortment of riding boots, breeches and other apparel.

A plump, kindly old woman steps forward from behind the counter, greeting them warmly. "What can I help you dears with today?"

Emma stammers, overwhelmed by the choices, not sure where to start, but Killian hands the woman a pouch of coin with a wink. "We're here for the lass today; see to it that she's fitted with whatever she requires."

The woman's eyes widen when she peers into the pouch and Emma wonders just how much coin Killian gave her.

Killian's hand comes to rest against her lower back and she raises her eyes to meet his. "I'll be waiting outside, love. Take your time."

The bell rings again as Killian exits and Emma returns her attention to the woman, who chuckles and takes her hand, dragging her through the shop. "Quite the man you've got there, dear."

Emma is about to correct the woman but thinks better of it. It's not as if she can easily explain her situation. "Uh, yes, he's very good to me."

The woman takes her cloak in a whirlwind of activity and sets it aside. "I'm Edith by the way dear, and you are?"

"I'm, uh, Etta." Emma smiles to cover her hesitation. "My parents named me after my grandmother Henrietta, but I was never a fan of the name."

Edith looks her up and down and smiles. "Not much more ribbons and bows are ya?"

Emma shakes her head and laughs, falling into easy conversation with the woman. "No. I've never much cared for dresses; much more at home on horseback."

Edith is already sifting through the breeches on the nearby wall. "So what are you looking for today, Etta? Any colour preferences?"

Emma is totally overwhelmed; as a child she didn't have to pick out her own clothes and since she was cursed, she's mostly been living in rags. "A little bit of everything, I guess. And um, as far as colour goes, why don't you choose for me?"

Edith looks happy to do so and directs her to a small room with a curtain partition. Item after item is passed her way and soon Emma stands outfitted in a new wardrobe. She wears deep olive green breeches, with suede laces weaved up the sides. The cotton blouse is a plain creamy white, topped with a hooded grey wool vest. The ensemble is completed by a new pair of soft caramel leather riding boots and a matching jacket with black accents that falls to her ankles. The clothes are of excellent quality, but still plain enough not to attract unwanted attention.

Emma steps out of the change room and Edith claps her hands with glee. "You look stunning, Etta dear!"

Emma smiles at her. "Thank you," she says sincerely. "You've been so helpful and these clothes are beautifully crafted."

Edith hands her a heavy bag, and Emma takes it, slinging it over her shoulder. "There are more breeches and blouses in there," the woman tells her.

Finally Edith hands her a pair of grey leather gloves. They fit perfectly and Emma thanks her again before leaving to find Killian.

Snow still falls gently when she steps outside, and Killian is seated, as promised, on a stone bench to the right of the door. He looks up when the bell dings and grins at her.

"You cut quite the figure in that outfit, love." His eyes run appreciatively over her body and he stands, fingering the lapel of her coat. "Shall we return your purchases to the ship, and then break for lunch?"

She nods agreeably. "Lead the way."

A quick visit to his ship sees her new bag of clothing tucked safely away in her quarters. The town is quaint and there are only a couple establishments offering food, so they choose a homey one that smells of fresh bread and cinnamon.

Killian holds the door for her, ever a gentleman and escorts her in. He chooses a small booth in the back corner, and they slide in across from each other. The air is laden with various aromas and she's practically salivating by the time a young girl appears to take their orders.

Killian orders a steak and a steaming mug of grog and she settles on chicken pot pie and a cup of hot cocoa with cinnamon. When their food arrives and the first bite touches her tongue, she closes her eyes and moans.

A hearty chuckle comes from across the table and she opens her eyes to glare at Killian.

"Quit laughing. I'm having a moment here."

"That good, eh love?" He quirks an eyebrow and smirks at her suggestively.

She grins through another mouthful. "Best thing I've tasted in years."

"I don't doubt that, lass, but there are many things you've yet to taste."

Emma shakes her head, ignoring him and digs into her food with another appreciative moan. If he's going to mess with her, she's damn sure going to mess with him a bit in return.

When they're finished their meals, Killian pays for their food and they head out again into the cold. A solid four inches of snow covers the ground now and she kicks at it playfully as they stroll through the town.

Emma follows Killian into a small cabin and they exit with a bow and a quiver full of arrows. She slings the quiver across her body and secures the bow to it.

"Where to now?" she asks. "I probably shouldn't use a bow in the middle of town."

"This way, I've a surprise for you." Killian leads her down the street and into the forest.

When they stop, he pulls a thin strip of silk from his jacket, waving it in the air. "Do you trust me, Emma?"

"You want to blindfold me? Seriously?" she asks, incredulous.

"Come on, love. It'll just be for a couple minutes. It'll make the surprise that much better, I promise," he insists, winding the scrap of silk loosely around his hook.

She huffs loudly and rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll play along." She glares at him. "This had better be worth it."

Killian drapes the silk across her eyes and knots it firmly behind her head. With her vision blackened, she tracks his movements by listening instead. He stands behind her, hand at her hip and she feels the hot wet heat of his breath against the shell of her ear.

"Oh, it'll be worth it, love."

* * *

><p>Killian leads Emma through the rough path into the snowy forest, carefully guiding her steps to prevent her from tripping. When they reach their destination, he unties the knot and removes her blindfold.<p>

She gasps, and he watches as she processes the sight before her: two large coal-black horses stand tacked, secured to a tree, snow dusting their rumps. Emma looks from him, to the horses and then back at him again, before throwing herself at him and hugging him tightly.

Her embrace is brief but crushing and she nearly knocks the wind from his chest.

"Worth it?" he asks.

The smile on her face is the only answer he needs.

The horses are nearly identical in size, a mare and a gelding, and he allows Emma her pick of the two. She chooses the mare and mounts effortlessly, settling into the saddle with grace. He mounts his steed and they head off side by side at a brisk walk.

"When did you even arrange this?" she asks, regarding him with a mixture of awe and confusion.

"Had a chat with Edith's husband while she was occupied with you. May have mentioned you yearning for some time on horseback and he offered to lease these two out to me for the afternoon. This here is Onyx," he pats the gelding on the neck, "and you're on Cimmerian."

Emma smiles at him broadly and stretches forward along the mare's neck, hugging her and whispering something unheard in the horse's ear. The mare perks up instantly and snorts in response to whatever Emma said.

The trees clear and they come to a large open field, nearly perfectly level and coated in a fresh coating of powdery snow.

Emma smiles deviously at him and Cimmerian shifts excitedly on the spot beneath her.

"Wanna race?" she asks him. "Cimmerian wants to race, don't you girl?"

The mare snorts eagerly, completely in tune with Emma's emotions.

Killian looks down at Onyx. "What do you say, lad? Shall we give these ladies a run for their money?"

The gelding huffs indifferently and Emma laughs.

"First one to the other side wins?" she suggests, backing Cimmerian up to stand even with Onyx.

Killian agrees. "On the count of three?"

Together they count. "One. Two. Three!"

Cimmerian bolts forward in a whirlwind of flying snow and Onyx takes off half a second later. He catches up easily and the horses gallop neck in neck for several seconds.

Emma looks over at him grinning, and with the wind in his ears he can't hear her words, but she seems to mouth something that looks suspiciously like "see ya".

She crouches low over the mare's neck and suddenly he's strides behind. Cimmerian thunders forward, ears pricked, pounding effortlessly through the snow and Killian urges Onyx forward but he can't catch them.

Emma reaches the other side of the clearing ahead of him and is waiting breathlessly when he pulls Onyx to a halt beside her. Emma's cheeks are rosy red from the cold wind and her green eyes are bright, sparkling with excitement. Her hat sits forgotten in the middle of the field and tendrils of hair frame her face, falling messily from the bun atop her head. Her chest heaves as she catches her breath and the smile on her face is absolutely breathtaking.

Side by side, the horses continue walking, winding along another narrow path between the trees. Her calf bumps against his every so often as the horses stroll amicably, nearly touching.

"You're quite the rider, love. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you bewitched that horse."

Emma beams at him. "I was riding before I could walk. My father insisted on it." Her smile falters and her expression saddens. "I miss them both so much, Killian. Are you sure it will take a whole month to get back to my kingdom?"

"I'm afraid so, love. My ship is fast, but even she has her limits. You'll have to make do with me for company in the meantime."

Emma's gloved hand reaches out to squeeze his forearm through the leather of his long coat.

"Thank you, Killian, really. I know I don't always come across as grateful, but I am. You've been so good to me. I mean you bought me clothes and we're out here in the snow on horseback and it's amazing and you've been so patient and put up with me and the horror of my curse and you didn't have to do any of this; rescuing me was more than enough and I just don't know how to thank you." Her eyes shine with unshed tears and he brings the horses to a halt.

"I know I didn't have to, Emma, I wanted to. And if you really want to thank me love, I can think of a simple way for you to do so." Killian taps a finger against his lips and Emma stares at him in disbelief.

He honestly expects her to make a smart-ass comment and perhaps punch him or urge Cimmerian into a gallop, leaving him behind. What he doesn't anticipate is the soft press of her lips against his own as she leans heavily in her saddle, steadying herself with a firm grip on his lapel. It's over before he can even react and she smiles shyly at him, prompting Cimmerian forward into a leisurely jog.

Killian lags behind, too stunned to move. His tongue darts out to taste his lips: cinnamon and cocoa caress his senses and he wants more, _so much more_.

"Come on, Pirate!" Emma calls from ahead, her tone teasing. "We don't have all day, and I want to get some target practice in."

She's a vision, perched atop the feisty black mare, and even though her golden hair is dulled with charcoal, she shines like the sun in the snowy afternoon light. She watches him with an expectant smile, her eyes alight with laughter and he shakes his head, nudging Onyx forward to join her.

Minutes later they reach another clearing. On the far side, many of the trees are dead, charred and burnt down to bare skeletons; frost covering the remaining carbonized wood. Emma halts Cimmerian, dismounting to land softly in the snow. Killian joins her and takes her reins so she can pull the bow from her back.

Emma stands with her torso turned and her feet planted apart in the snow. She pulls an arrow from the quiver and nocks it, raising the bow and aligning her sight. Drawing the string back to her cheek, she takes a deep breath, steadies and releases. The arrow departs smoothly from the bow, flying in a straight line across the clearing to plunge into scorched wood with a resounding crack.

Looking over her shoulder, Emma grins broadly at him before proceeding to fire five more arrows in quick succession into the same tree. She attaches the bow to the quiver and takes her reins again, remounting the mare. They canter unhurried across the clearing and when they reach the other side, Killian has to admit he's impressed. The first arrow sits dead centre in a rounded knot on the tree: the other five arrows form a tight circle around it.

"Bloody hell, love! Did your father teach you that as well?" he asks, bewildered.

"My mother did, actually. My father could handle himself with a bow, but he always preferred a sword. My mother though, she could out-shoot every single one of our palace guards. I definitely inherited her proclivity for archery. "

"It would certainly seem so." Killian dismounts and pulls the arrows from the charred bark, handing them to her. "But tell me love, can you hit a moving target from horseback?"

He picks up several large pine cones from the forest floor and she grins.

"Easy."

She trots out into the field a ways, draws her bow and calls to him. "Ready!"

Killian winds up and tosses the first pine cone in a powerful arc across the field. The arrow cuts through the snowy air and skewers the pine cone, sending it spiralling to the ground. He tosses several more pine cones to varying distances and heights and they all meet the same fate as the first.

The last pine cone he balances upright on his open palm, his arm outstretched. Emma eyes him warily. "Are you sure?"

"I trust that you won't cripple my only remaining hand, love," he says, grinning at her.

Emma nods and nocks the last arrow. She draws the string back and takes a deep breath, holding it as she releases. The arrow glides through the air, steals the pine cone from his hand and pins it against the tree beside him.

"Brilliant!"

Emma grins, dismounting to collect the arrows and as he leads Onyx toward her, Killian catches her looking at the sky with a worried expression on her face. It's later in the afternoon now and while the sky is still filled with fluffy snow clouds, their colour has transitioned from bright white to hazy grey-purple.

It's impossible to see where exactly the sun sits in the sky, and he estimates that sundown is still a ways off, but he'd rather play it safe and have them back aboard the Jolly Roger sooner rather than later.

"We'll make it back in plenty of time love, so long as we don't dally," he reassures her, placing the final arrow in the quiver at her back.

"Are you sure? I'm fairly certain that transforming into a monster and hallucinating dead people doesn't count as keeping a low profile." Emma still sounds uncertain.

"Positive." Killian prompts her to look at him with the knuckle tucked under her chin. "And you're not a monster, love."

Huffing, Emma frowns. "You say that, but I bet you won't be wanting me to kiss you after night fall."

"You can kiss me whenever you should so desire, Emma. Cursed face or not; I assure you love, I'll be an avid participant." His thumb brushes over the dimple on her chin and she looks at him with a small wavering smile. "Ask me again tonight if you still don't believe me. For now though, we should see these horses home."

* * *

><p>After returning the horses to their stables, it's a short walk back to the ship. They converse quietly on the way and Killian thanks the dock master for his help with a hearty pat on the back. Emma leans against the rail of the Jolly Roger, watching the small seaside town in the fading light as Killian prepares the ship to sail.<p>

Unseen, hidden in the shadow of another ship, a small man stands, watching Emma closely.


	7. Chapter Six

A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting this, but with the site down the other day I was unable to update when I had planned to. It's here now though!

* * *

><p>Nightly, for the past week, David, with Snow at his side has made the long walk across the palace grounds, past the gate, and into the forest. And each time when the sun settles below the horizon, the reflective surface of the shard of mirror swirls into inky blackness and remains empty.<p>

Tonight is no exception.

Placing the shard back into its velvet dwelling, David takes Snow's hand and they leave the shack to return to the castle.

"Your highness! Milady!" A voice calls to them through the dark and David holds the lantern up to illuminate the path. One of his guards canters toward them on horseback. When he reaches them, he dismounts hurriedly, bowing respectfully.

"What it is Baynard? Do you have word of our daughter?" David asks, hopeful.

Baynard nods, out of breath. "Yes sir. I've no concrete proof yet, but there is word from a distant port that a mysterious pirate from another realm set sail to reach her nearly a month ago."

"A PIRATE?" Snow shouts, angry and concerned. "You mean to tell me a _pirate_ took our baby girl?"

Poor Baynard stutters apologetically.

"Snow..." David tries to calm her.

"No! David! You know pirates. You know what they're like. Do we even know if he's bringing her home? What if he..."

David grabs her hands in his own and squeezes tightly. "Hey, hey. It'll be okay. We have a reward out for her return. Whoever he is, he's a pirate, and he won't pass on the opportunity to collect recompense."

David turns back toward the guard. "Baynard, I want men out searching and listening. If anyone so much as whispers her name, I want to know it. Get word to our allies as far east as possible, but be discreet, the Evil Queen has been laying low lately but I'm sure she has eyes and ears everywhere."

Baynard mounts the horse again and takes off across the yard.

Snow cups his cheek and whispers his name, and when he turns to face her, she has hopeful tears in her eyes.

"She's coming home, David. I can feel it. Emma will find her way back to us."

* * *

><p>Growing ever smaller, the snowy seaside town fades into an indistinguishable blur on the horizon as the Jolly Roger cuts effortlessly through the waves. The snow has stopped but the air is damp and chilly as Emma leans against the rail, watching the cloudy sky darken. The familiar tingle of her curse courses through her body and she removes a glove to examine the pale bony hand beneath with a sigh.<p>

"Hello, beautiful." Killian leans against the rail beside her with a wicked grin plastered on his face. She snorts and rolls her eyes.

"Still don't believe me, eh love?" He takes her ungloved hand in his own and she frowns at him, studying his face. His eyes are kind and his smile is soft, and though she doesn't understand it in the slightest, she does believe him. But she's just not there yet; wherever there is. It's one thing to share a small kiss from horseback when there are plenty of places to run, but here on his ship there are very few distractions and even fewer places to escape if she becomes overwhelmed.

Emma squeezes his hand lightly and turns. "Let's go get something to eat before I have a vision and my appetite is ruined."

"As you wish, lass." Killian follows her down below and together they pick out a late supper. He enters his cabin with a look over his shoulder and she follows him in. Emma removes her jacket and takes a seat as he lights the lanterns.

"How old are you?" she asks when he sits down. It's a question she's been meaning to ask all week; at a glance he looks to be about thirty, but there's something in his eyes that speak of a man much, _much_, older.

Killian laughs. "That, love, is a simple question, with a very complicated answer."

"How complicated can it be?"

"Let's just say I've been alive for a very long time; somewhere in the neighbourhood of three hundred years. I've lost count of the precise number."

Emma nearly chokes on her food. "Did you just say three hundred years?"

The grin on his face is mischievous and she wonders if maybe he's messing with her. "Aye, that I did, love."

"But how? Are you even human?" she asks, picking through her supper.

"I assure you Emma, the only thing unearthly about me is my dashing good looks. I spent many years in another realm where time moves quite differently from here; a land where one can stay young forever."

"Another realm?" Emma tries to wrap her mind around the concept of another world.

"Called Neverland. With magic much like this one, but a very different set of rules."

"Why did you go there?" Emma asks, interested. Killian has hardly talked about himself at all this last week and now she's intrigued. She hopes that no visions appear tonight so that she may hear his story without pause.

He snags another bite of food and washes it down with a swig of rum. "The first time..."

"The first time? You went more than once?"

"I'll get there, love, if you would be so kind as to quit interrupting."

Emma apologizes, chastened and allows him to continue. His features have darkened and there's something in the rough timbre of his voice that grabs her, holds her captive and expectant.

"I wasn't always a pirate," he begins. "Many years ago I was a member of the Royal Navy; a lieutenant on this very ship. My older brother, Liam was her captain. On orders of our King, we were to sail to a distant land to retrieve a plant called dreamshade, rumoured to heal all wounds. My brother held star maps and a sextant with constellations I had never seen the likes of."

His eyes are unfocused, wistful, as if recalling a fond memory.

"Back then, the Jolly Roger was known as the Jewel of the Realm and she was outfitted with a magical sail, woven from Pegasus feathers. The Pegasus sail was our ticket to Neverland. Being another realm entirely, it could not be reached by sea."

Emma is enthralled by his tale, the tone and candor with which he speaks is mesmerizing. Killian pauses to sip at his rum. "Don't tell me you flew there," she says with scepticism and Killian raises an eyebrow. "You did, didn't you?"

"Indeed, love. With the Pegasus sail unfurled, this big old bloody ship rose right up out of the water and into the sky. We floated above the clouds all the way to Neverland. When we arrived, Liam and I rowed to shore where we met a strange boy named Peter Pan. He told us where to find the dreamshade, but warned us that it was a deadly poison, not a panacea – a cure-all as our King had promised."

Killian pauses for another drink of rum. "But Liam was a stubborn fool and refused to believe that our king might have less than honourable intentions."

His voice is sombre now and Emma suspects that the story will not have a happy ending.

"He was so determined to prove me wrong, that he scratched himself with a thorn from the plant." Killian shakes his head sadly at the memory. "Within seconds he had collapsed to the ground as the poison spread through his veins. Peter Pan appeared again in that moment and led me to a spring whose waters would cure him."

He recants the story in small segments, interspersed by mouthfuls of rum, and his supper sits forgotten in front of him, so Emma steals a piece of bread while she waits for him to continue.

"Pan warned me though that magic always comes with a price, and that should we ever leave the island, we would have to pay it. I agreed instantly of course, my brother was all I had and no price was too high to spare his life," he says, tracing worn grooves in the table with the point of his hook. "One sip of the water and my brother was healed, but when I turned around, Pan was gone."

Killian takes another sip of rum and offers the flask to Emma. She takes it and he continues.

"We searched for Pan on our way back to the ship, but he was nowhere to be found. We figured that he had chosen to waive the debt, so we set course for home, planning to reveal the kings unholy intentions. All was well until we touched down in the waters of this realm; Liam collapsed at once, dying in my arms and it was only then that I truly understood Pan's words. I was furious and devastated, so as the new captain of the ship, I told my crew the truth and convinced them to renounce the king. I set fire to the Pegasus sail so that no one could ever use its magic to return to that dreadful realm. My crew and I took on a life as pirates, free to live by our own code, for at least, among thieves, there is honour."

Emma hands the flask back to Killian and places her hand on his forearm above the brace that holds his hook. "I'm sorry," she says sincerely. She doesn't have any siblings, so she can't even fathom the loss of one.

"It's all right love, it was lifetimes ago. I still miss him some days but I've avenged his death many times over the years."

"You said you've been to Neverland more than once," Emma states, confused. "How did you return if you destroyed the Pegasus sail?"

Killian shakes the now empty flask with a frown. "If you insist upon hearing that story, love, I'm afraid I'll need more rum." There's a bottle on the desk and he grabs it, popping the cork easily and downing several sizeable mouthfuls.

If he continues drinking at this rate, he'll be well and truly inebriated in short order, but she suspects that's his intention. Clearly this story isn't going to be any more cheerful than the last.

"Do you remember asking me about by tattoo the other night?"

Emma nods. "Milah, right?"

"Aye."

"You loved her, didn't you?" she asks, fairly certain she already knows the answer.

"You're quite perceptive, aren't you love?" Another mouthful of rum passes Killian's lips.

"I may have spent nearly a decade locked away but that doesn't mean I haven't seen things; felt things. I'm not as clueless or naive as you might think." Emma's voice is defensive, harsh. "I'm not a kid anymore. I haven't been for a long time. My childhood ended the day I was cursed."

"I never implied that you were clueless or naive, love. And I most certainly do not view you as a child. I was simply impressed by your discernment." The way Killian appraises her body with a lingering gaze, convinces her that he definitely does not see her as a child.

"So how does Milah fit into the whole Neverland story?" Emma questions in an attempt to focus his attentions.

Another sip of rum and Killian continues. She's amazed that the alcohol hasn't yet impaired the crystal clear enunciation of his words.

"After my brother's death, the crew and I spent much of our time at sea, stealing from the king's ships, and when at port, we occupied our time in taverns with rum and women. That's how I met Milah. She was unhappily married, wife to a cowardly man. She longed to escape and live a life of adventure. One night her husband came into the bar, begging her to come home; he brought their son with him and guilt ridden, she left."

Killian's words are soft, melancholy, remembering a life and love long passed. He swallows more rum and sheds his long coat.

"Later that night Milah snuck away and returned to my ship, pleaded that I take her with me. I agreed, but the next morning her husband came to the ship looking for her. I told him that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."

Another sip of rum and the bottle connects with the table solidly.

"He was a small frail man; I wouldn't have killed him, all he had to do was pick up that sword, just be willing to fighting for her and I would have sent Milah home with him, but he refused to touch it and left the ship like the coward he was. Milah sailed away with us and I quickly fell in love with her fire and tenacity."

Almost imperceptibly Killian's speech begins to slur.

"Several years later I encountered Milah's husband again, but he was different this time; vile, scaled like a crocodile, transformed by the darkest of magics; a powerful, cruel sorcerer. He asked how Milah was and I lied to protect her, told him she had died long ago. He wanted to finish the duel he ran from all those years before and told me I had the night to get my affairs in order."

This time when Killian sets the bottle back on the table, it wobbles precariously and Emma has to reach out to keep it from tipping.

"The next morning at dawn he met me in the alley and after a brutal duel he had me on my knees, sword to my throat. I was ready to die. Would have gladly died so that Milah could live, but when the damn crocodile sunk his fist into my chest and clenched his impious fingers around my heart, Milah, the brave, stupid woman she was, came out of hiding and offered to make a deal with him."

Killian's voice is laced with hatred, and deeply seated anguish cuts at his words, sharpening them, strengthening his accent. He takes several more draws of rum and this time his grip on the bottle is so rigid that Emma is afraid if he squeezes any harder the glass will shatter. His sight is fixated on the table and though she wants to, she doesn't reach out to him.

"Milah offered him a magical bean in exchange for our lives. I should've known it wouldn't be that simple though, and Milah, bless her heart, she should've just kept her mouth shut. But she had to taunt him, goad him; tell him that she never loved him and he took her heart for it. Ripped it from her chest and crushed it to dust right before my very eyes. She died in my arms and there was nothing, nothing I could do to stop it. And still, he wanted the damned magic bean, so he cut off my left hand; believing I still had it clenched tightly in my fist."

"So I took this hook," Killian says, slamming the hook down hard into the wooden table between them, "and plunged it into his chest where his heart should have been, but he just laughed and laughed, then disappeared."

Cracking under the pressure of Killian's vehemence, the bottle shatters, spilling its contents over the edge of the table. Emma curses and reaches for his hand as blood swirls with rum. Killian doesn't even seem to notice.

"I knew I needed time to plan my revenge, so I told my crew they could either join me or get the hell off my ship. After burying Milah at sea, I threw the bean into the waves and we sailed through a portal to Neverland. Unfortunately my time there proved rather fruitless, for I am still no closer to killing the wretched crocodile."

Killian is either too drunk or too lost in thought to notice, so Emma blots at the blood with a clean rag, trying to get a better look at his injured hand. She grazes a piece of deeply embedded glass and he winces, yanking his hand away. "Bloody hell! What are you trying to do?" he shouts.

She grabs his forearm, pulling his hand back where she can see it. He tries to evade her, but in his intoxicated state his motions are slow and uncoordinated. She's of half a mind to leave and let him attempt to mend his own hand, except that he's only got one, and she doesn't think that even sober, he'd be able to manage.

"I'm trying to help you, Killian! Now sit still." Her voice is stern and commanding and in that moment, she sounds so much like her mother it hurts.

Killian settles and pouts. The man actually pouts. His lower lip sticks out and he looks like a petulant child. His blue eyes watch her, unfocused, and his hair is an absolute disaster. She probably should have taken the rum away from him sooner. Or maybe she should have just suppressed her curiosity and not asked him to share such a painful story. The damage is done though, and now she's sitting here trying to pull glass from the only remaining hand of a drunken three hundred year old pirate.

Shifting her chair closer to Killian, Emma prays for the second time that tonight remains free of visions. She removes his rings gently and pulls the larger pieces of glass from his hand first, apologizing when he grimaces. As she works on his hand, he watches her closely; his eyes mostly fixate on her face, occasionally dropping not so stealthily lower. She knows that with her curse, much like the bones of her face, her ribs and collarbones stand out sharply against the skin of her chest. She's still amazed that Killian doesn't seem at all repulsed by her altered appearance.

With the glass removed, Emma wipes the cuts clean with a damp cloth. The bleeding has slowed substantially but she still wants to bandage his hand. First though, she really should have him change his shirt; the right arm of this one is soaked with rum and blood.

Trying not to think about the fact that she's about to see him shirtless, she speaks up. "We need to get you out of this shirt."

Killian has been silent up until now, content to let her tend to his hand, but he perks up at her words. "Eager to undress me, love?" He grins at her and waggles his eyebrows.

She rolls her eyes. "You're not getting undressed; you just need to change your shirt."

"If you insist, love. Either way, I am going to require your assistance." Killian holds up his hook and injured hand. "I've no hands able to undo these buttons." He looks far too pleased with himself and she groans, asking him to stand.

Killian sways when he stands and steadies himself with his hooked arm on her shoulder. "Don't be shy, love. Have at it." He smirks and practically puffs out his chest.

Emma undoes the buttons of his vest first, working quickly and carefully sliding it off his shoulders and down his arms. She sits it aside on the back of a chair and moves to the blouse underneath. It's tucked into his pants and she yanks it out hastily, blushing as she unfastens the buttons. Emma tries not to look, she really does, but it's impossible. His torso is firm and well muscled; a glorious layer of hair fans out across his chest and it's a conscious battle not to run her fingers through it, to fully touch the softness she briefly felt against her knuckles. The hair trails down his stomach in a narrower line, disappearing beneath his leather breeches and she forces herself to look up.

When Emma removes his shirt she gets a better look at the brace that secures his hook. It's primarily crafted of leather with straps and buckles securing it over both his forearm and bicep. She deposits the soiled shirt on top of his vest and looks around his quarters.

"Where do you keep your spare shirts?" she inquires and the look he gives her screams trouble.

"I'm actually quite comfortable just as I am, love. I don't think I'll bother," he says swaying drunkenly on the spot.

"Killian..." Emma complains, protesting.

"What's the matter, love? You've a problem with me being shirtless? Does it trouble you so?" He backs up clumsily to sit on the bed, tapping the spot next to him with his hook.

Trouble is right. He's a shameless flirt sober: drunk, he's downright incorrigible.

"Whatever," she huffs, grabbing a clean scrap of cloth and a salve she'd seen sitting on his desk to bandage his hand.

Emma perches on the edge of his bunk and pries open the container of salve, dipping her fingers in and gently smoothing the ointment over the cuts before looping the cloth around his hand and knotting the end to secure it in place. Satisfied with the bandage, she stands and quickly cleans up the mess on the table.

When she grabs her jacket with the intention of returning to her cabin, Killian's voice stops her.

"Emma?"

The brash smile and drunken bravado are gone from his face. He looks tired and sad; lonely, the burden of his losses weighing heavily on his soul.

"Stay with me?" Killian asks and her heart breaks a little. Centuries old, but at the heart of it, he's still just a lost little boy.

"Put a shirt on and I'll consider it."

"In there." He points to the chest on the right and she returns her jacket to the back of a chair before pulling a neatly folded shirt from the trunk. He slides his arms through the sleeves and she buttons it for him. Killian kicks his boots off and she helps him detach his hook before settling him beneath the covers.

Snuffing out the lanterns, the cabin plunges into darkness. Emma removes her hooded vest and boots, and then slides into the bunk on her back. Killian reaches for her instantly in the darkness and wraps his left arm across her stomach in a lazy embrace. He smells of rum and salt and leather and she closes her eyes, suddenly exhausted. Sleep envelopes her quickly in its heavy grip, and just before she succumbs, she swears she feels the gentle press of lips against her temple.


	8. Chapter Seven

Through the darkened forest a small disfigured man hobbles; his back hunched and his cloak drawn up over his head. The path is thick with fog, crawling along the sodden ground as though moved by an unearthly force. Moonlight burns from behind tenebrous clouds, casting shadows through the barren trees. In the distance, a crow caws, its echoing screech, grating and shrill.

The man comes to a halt at the edge of a small rocky clearing and lowers his hood. His nose and jaw are bent, misshapen, his rotting teeth aligned in a grotesque sneer. One eye is dark, black as coal, and where the second should be, sits a hollow socket. Looking up, the man focuses on a large crow, perched with eerie stillness on a high branch.

"Your highness," he speaks hesitantly with a nod.

Spreading its wings, the crow swoops from the branch, and in a swirl of dark purple smoke, transforms.

"Sullivan," the Evil Queen greets him with disdain. "Tell me that you've found where the princess is hiding!"

Sullivan quivers under the austerity of her tone. "Yes, yes, my queen." He bows his head in fear. "She was taken by a pirate named Hook. I caught glimpse of them leaving port on his ship."

"Where? When?!" the Evil Queen demands.

"Earlier this evening, a town not half a day's journey from here, headed west, your highness, I believe he's taking her home."

Outrage flashes across her face and wrath flows from her in violent unseen waves. She plucks a rock from the ground, fisting it tightly. "Of course he is. And I will let them get close. I will let her have hope, and then I will take it away. I will rip his heart out and crush it." The rock in her hand crumbles to dust as she squeezes. "Then I will return her to her prison and spend every day until her twentieth birthday, ensuring that she witnesses the most horrific deaths possible."

With a hateful grin, she wipes the dust from her hands. "Until next time, Sullivan."

Thick plumes of violet smoke envelop the Evil Queen, and in a heartbeat, Sullivan stands alone in the forest again.

* * *

><p>When Killian wakes, it's slowly as he fights his way through a cluttered path to consciousness. His mouth is dry, cottony and his head aches, the thrum of his pulse pounding brutally behind his eyes. He raises his hand to massage the pain away but his arm is trapped by a warm weight.<p>

Through blurry eyes he looks down to where Emma sleeps soundly, tucked against his side with her head on his shoulder and the sight of his bandaged hand resting lightly against her side returns hazy memories from the night before. Killian flexes his fingers; they're stiff and slightly swollen but the pain in his hand isn't terrible. Emma did a fine job tending to his wounds.

He never intended to drink that much; only just enough to take the edge off. It's been decades since he's told anyone about Milah; since he's shared his heartache with another. Apparently not even time has been able to heal that particular wound; it's still open, festering and raw.

Emma shifts against his side, snuggling closer in her sleep. Her hand creeps into the open v of his shirt to rest against his chest, and his lungs constrict tightly at her touch. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be letting her in. Rescuing Emma was never supposed to be anything more than a means to an end; a way to gain powerful allies and eventually get his revenge upon the vile crocodile that took his Milah and his hand.

He told himself he was just being a gentleman; buying her new clothes and taking her horseback riding to occupy time why they waited for the ship to be stocked. And the flirting, well that's just who he is, it didn't mean anything, but then he had to go and practically dare the lass to kiss him. He never believed for a second that she would actually do it, but she went and proved him wrong, all rosy cheeks and soft lips; shy, but with stubborn tenacity burning just below the surface. And now that he's tasted her, he can't help but want more.

Sighing, he decides to write it off as attraction, pure and simple. She's beautiful, there's no denying that, and he is just a man after all.

Killian shifts slightly, restless and suddenly wide awake. His movements rouse Emma who stretches languidly against his side, pressing her hand further under his shirt and slinging a long leg across his waist, resting against him intimately.

Instinctively he clutches her closer with a strangled groan, and she freezes against him, finally awake. His hardness presses against her leg where it rests atop him and he knows she can feel it. Blush surges up to colour her cheeks and she blindly attempts to untangle herself from his arms. The blankets trap her against him and in her struggle, she accidently knees him in the hip before leaning against his injured hand.

"Bloody hell, love, quit squirming!" He winces in pain and she stills instantly.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly. "Is your hand okay?"

"I think I'll live."

Emma sits up carefully and holds his hand in both of hers, examining the bandage; her concern temporarily overriding any embarrassment.

"And next time love; please try not to run in a blind panic from my bed. Quite the blow to a man's ego, you know."

Emma stares at him. "I didn't panic!" she protests.

Killian raises an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes.

"It's a perfectly natural response to your presence in my bed, love." He nods toward his waist and the blush returns with vigor to her cheeks. "You've no need to be embarrassed. It's something you'll have to become accustomed to if you continue to insist on sleeping in my bed."

Emma looks at him puzzled. "Actually, it was you that asked me to stay last night."

"Did I?" he asks. The memory is there, but it's vague, dream-like and hazy.

Emma nods. "After I made you change your shirt, bandaged your hand, and cleaned up your mess. You were a royal pain in the ass, by the way." Her grin belies her words and he chuckles.

"I was going to return to my own quarters but you asked me to stay. You looked sad, and I figured after you let me stay the other night, and after all that you've done for me, it was the least I could do." Her sweet smile reveals a chink in his armor, and he's afraid it won't be long until she worms her way in past his carefully constructed walls, toppling them brick by brick and breaching his defenses.

Emma unwinds the bandage and examines his hand. The lacerations are red and sensitive but the edges of each cut have begun to heal together. She slides from the bed and he sits up to watch as she fetches clean cloths, the salve, and some water. She cleanses the dried blood gently from the cuts and pats them dry before applying more of the balm and wrapping a fresh bandage around his hand.

"Should heal up just fine," she says, placing his hand on the bed, "might want to avoid doing too much with it for a couple days though."

"Thank you." He holds up his hand, admiring her handiwork. "Where'd you learn to do this?" he asks.

"I wasn't exactly a typical princess, remember? I spent most of my childhood riding horses and playing in the forest. I was covered in scrapes and bruises more often than not. I learned quickly how to tend to them."

A nostalgic smile blooms on Emma's face.

"What is it, love?" he asks.

"I was just remembering my eighth birthday; I had been out riding that morning and my brat of a pony had thrown me into a tree. I wasn't fazed, just got right back on, but that afternoon when I returned to the castle to prepare for my birthday ball; my father took one look at me and burst out laughing. Turns out I had a black eye; my mother was far less amused." Emma laughs. "I was a terrible princess."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad, love. I bet you looked lovely in a ball gown." Killian says, trying to picture a young Emma all dolled up in satin and lace.

"I may have looked the part, but I was forever tripping over my skirts. And god forbid anyone should have to dance with me; the only step I mastered was that of stepping on toes." Emma brushes a lock of hair from her forehead and stands, crumpling the soiled bandage in her hand.

"Perhaps you just haven't found the right partner." Killian grins, shifting to sit at the edge of the bed. "The key is to pick someone who knows what he's doing."

"And let me guess; you know what you're doing."

"Aye, that I do. Perhaps later, I'll show you. Presently though, we should get above deck and check on my ship."

Emma reaches for her boots, stepping into them before pulling on her vest. She hesitates briefly before speaking. "If you need me to... if you show me how, I can help out with the ship," she offers. "You shouldn't be doing much with that hand yet."

Killian wishes she could help out with more than his ship. He only has one hand and there are certain activities he will have to forego until it heals. Emma is looking at him strangely and he realizes he has yet to answer her.

"I'd appreciate that, love. Go grab yourself something to eat, I'll be up shortly." He dismisses her and she dons her jacket before leaving the cabin.

Emma shuts the door behind her and Killian flops back against his mattress with a groan. The lass is going to be the death of him, he's sure of it.

* * *

><p>Emma grabs a fresh bun and a large orange for breakfast. Yesterday on their way back to the ship, Killian had told her to eat the more perishable foods first and she's glad to do so. She jumps up to sit on a barrel, eating while she waits for him. The outer layer of the bun is crisp and crumbly, but the inside is buttery soft and moist. She peels the orange and alternates between the two as she gazes out over the sea. There's nothing but water surrounding them; the horizon perfectly level, uninterrupted by land.<p>

She can't believe she had practically been sleeping on top of Killian; her hand on his chest, fingers twined in his thick chest hair (it's coarser than she expected, not quite soft, but still silky) and her leg across his waist. He certainly didn't seem to mind. She remembers the feel of him pressed, hard against the inside of her knee and blushes furiously.

She really shouldn't be so embarrassed; she's seen nearly everything there is to see in her visions. She knows what a naked man looks like. Oddly enough sex and death seem to go hand in hand rather frequently and it's not always in the violent way she expected. She's seen clumsy drunken sex result in falls and accidental deaths. She's seen lovers torn apart by disapproving parents and employers. Hell, she's even seen an old man die of heart failure while making love to his wife.

But she's never felt any of it before, never experienced it for herself. She only just had her first kiss yesterday (if she can even call it that). She'd pressed her lips to his so briefly and pulled away before he could even react. They aren't even together; he's a three hundred year old pirate for fuck's sake, and she, well she's supposed to be a princess, though she hardly knows what that means anymore, and he just acts like it's the most natural thing in the world to wake up aroused in bed with her. And the worst part of all is that it doesn't even feel wrong.

"Enjoying the view?" Killian's voice whispers next to her ear and she startles, nearly falling from her perch on the barrel.

"What the hell!" she complains, spinning to face him. "You seriously need to stop sneaking up on me!"

"But you make it so easy love, just sitting there all brooding and lost in thought."

The grin on his face is infuriating and she's tempted to punch him, but that's probably the reaction he's hoping for. Instead she just slides off the barrel and smiles back at him.

"At your service, Captain," she says with a mock salute.

The look on his face is priceless and she can't help but laugh. "C'mon, seriously, give me something to do. I feel useless sitting around and reading all the time."

"If you insist. Do you know your port and starboard sides? Bow and stern?" he asks.

Emma nods. "I've read through a couple of your sailing books."

Killian guides her over to the wheel and hands her a compass. "Our intention is to head due west toward your kingdom. The wind however, is not always on our side. If the wind is blowing directly from the west, we can hardly sail into it. As such, a direct course is not always feasible. Today though, luck is on our side and a good strong wind blows from the east. "

She follows Killian down from the helm and he tells her how to handle and maneuver the sails and rigging. He has her adjust the position of the mainsail, using his weight to aid her before teaching her how to tie off the rigging.

Finally he has her turn the wheel two notches starboard and she smiles proudly as the ship surges strongly forward with the wind at her back.

They sit together on the barrels and the wind whips her hair wildly about her face. The air is cold, but the sun is strong and it helps cut the chill.

"Killian?" she asks. "You said last night that you hadn't come up with a plan. Why did you leave Neverland, then?"

He turns to look at her and his eyes are dark, conflicted. "Honestly?"

Emma nods, not sure if she's going to like the answer.

"I'd lost hope. A century passed, then decade after decade, and still I was no closer to my revenge. It was also a bloody long time to go without the company of a woman."

"There are no women in Neverland?" What kind of place is this, she wonders.

"Fairies, but they hardly count. Many of my crew brought with them companions, but at the time of our departure I had no interest in doing so, for obvious reasons."

"So you went...without...?" she trails off, the meaning clearly implied.

Killian laughs wryly, nodding. "Heartbreak does strange things to a man, love."

After last night, it's quite clear that Killian isn't over Milah's death and she wonders if he still intends to seek revenge. "Are you still trying to kill him? That man?" she asks. "Does he even have a name?"

"I am, and he does, though I dare not speak it. He's better known as the dark one anyhow."

"You want to kill the dark one?!" she asks in disbelief. "Are you insane?"

"You know of him?" Killian looks surprised.

"Not a lot," she says, "only that he's the most powerful sorcerer in the realm, and that he's in the business of making deals and knowing names. You'd be a fool to go up against him expecting to survive."

"I've never been under the illusion that I would survive my revenge, love. If my life is the cost of ridding this realm of such evil, I'll gladly pay it." His tone is resigned, defeated, and she doesn't doubt that he means every word.

"You don't intend to return me to my parents for coin, do you? You want information instead," Emma states. "You're hoping my parents know something that can help you. All that talk about rescuing me to give your life meaning was just that; talk."

Killian looks impressed and more than a little shocked.

"I'm more than a pretty face, pirate," she says, bitterly. "You should have just told me the truth." Emma slides from the barrel and strides across the deck upset and disappointed. She doesn't get far before Killian catches her around the arm with his hook, halting her departure.

"Look love, I'm not exactly proud of the man I've become, but I didn't lie to you."

"Sure," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I think you need to revise your definition of lying."

"I told you I wasn't in it just for the coin, did I not? And my life _has_ been devoid of meaning. A man can only live so long on the promise of revenge with naught but his ghosts for company." He sighs, continuing. "The path I was on was leading me nowhere and when I heard tell of you, I admit, I was hopeful that I could return you to your parents in exchange for help defeating the dark one, but..." Killian sighs and pinches a thumb and his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"But?" Emma prompts, expecting him to continue.

"As soon as I met you, I knew you were more than just a means to an end." The words are exhaled in a breathy rush, reluctant but honest. "I'm sorry, Emma, I should have just been straight with you from the beginning."

She's still completely unsure of what exactly she means to him, but he was honest and apologized and she gets the feeling that's not something he makes a habit of doing often.

She releases the breath she's been holding and takes his bandaged hand gently.

"Okay."

"Okay?" he parrots, confused.

"When we get back to my kingdom, as a reward for rescuing me, I'll see to it that my parents tell you everything they know about the dark one," she offers.

"You're serious?" he asks and Emma can tell he doesn't quite believe her.

"I am. And even if my parents don't want to, I'll convince them. You know how stubborn I can be."

Killian laughs at that. "Fair enough."

His eyes are filled with wonder and incredulity, as he searches her face for something unknown. She's not sure if he finds what he's looking for, but he shakes his head and smiles at her. "Come sit with me again love, it's far too nice a day to spend below deck."

Agreeing, she returns with him to their spot on the barrels and relaxes as the sun beats down upon the skin of her face.

Killian enthralls her with tales of his many journeys and the remainder of the day passes in a companionable haze.

* * *

><p>Moments earlier the sun had dipped below the skyline, illuminating the heavens in a spectacular display of intense coral fog and opaque lavender mist. The gold drains from Emma's hair, leaving it pale silver in the waning light.<p>

Killian watches as she focuses on an unseen image; her visions arriving swiftly with the setting sun. Her sight is fixed with interest, but she doesn't appear sad or frightened; if anything, the expression on her face is wistful. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears and a slight smile forms on her face.

The vision departs as quickly as it arrived and she faces him, wiping at her eyes.

"You all right, love?" he asks, concerned.

Nodding, Emma smiles. "It was a good one. The natural deaths of the elderly usually are."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" If it's a happy tale, he wants to encourage her to share, embrace the fact that perhaps her curse isn't entirely a burden.

"He was an old man, with a large loving family," she starts. "He had grown progressively sicker and his granddaughter wanted to put off her wedding, but he insisted, saying he would love nothing more than to see her dance with her husband before he passed." Emma smiles and wipes at her nose as she tells the story.

"It was a beautiful wedding, held outside in a snow covered courtyard surrounded by brightly lit hanging lanterns. The man got to watch his granddaughter marry and he cried as she shared the first dance with her husband. He was so happy Killian." Emma shifts and their knees bump together. "He went to bed that night, with his wife at his side, and died peacefully in his sleep with a smile on his face. I wish everyone could go like that you know? After a life full of joy, painlessly and at peace."

Killian nods. "Aye, love. If only."

Emma lapses into silence, a faraway look in her eyes as she gazes out over the starlit sea.

Remembering his earlier promise to showcase his savvy dance skills, he slides from the barrel. "Wait right here. I need to grab something from below deck."

She gives him a puzzled look but does as told. "Okay..."

He returns moments later and places an intricately carved wooden box on the barrel next to her.

"What is it?" Emma trails her fingers along the detailed designs.

"An old trinket I've had for longer than I can remember." He opens the lid and begins winding the lever. "It's a music box, enchanted to play the appropriate song for any given situation."

Killian releases the lever and a rhythmic melody emanates from it; dulcet tones sounding in a flowing beat.

Offering his hand, he grins wickedly at her. "Would you like to dance, love?"

"Here?" She looks around, reluctant.

"Where else?"

She takes his hand gently, careful of the bandages, and he pulls her from the barrel and into his arms. "I know it's hardly a ballroom, but," Killian looks upward, "the stars are out."

Emma's gaze follows his. The air is crystal clear and millions of stars twinkle brilliantly above them. Killian tucks her long silver locks behind her ear and places her left hand on his shoulder. He guides her right hand to his hook and runs his hand slowly along her side to rest at her waist. He feels her inhale sharply at his touch, and her colourless eyes flicker up and down his face before finally locking on his own.

Pulling her closer, he swings her easily into a smooth three step rhythm. Emma is looking down, concentrating on their feet and he chuckles when she stumbles slightly.

"Look up, Emma," Killian suggests. "Forget about your feet, just look at me and don't think too hard."

She looks up at him with a disgruntled huff, and he continues to guide her movements in time with the music. He feels the exact moment when she stops fighting him and gives to his lead. She's warm, pliant in his arms and her movements mirror his fluidly. She grins up at him, impressed.

"You feel that, aye love?" The way she moves with him is startling in its perfection.

"You make it seem so easy," she says, beaming.

Killian spins her outward, twirling her several times in the starlight. There's a silvery iridescent glow about her and when he pulls her back to him, she collides against his chest, breathless with laughter.

The music slows; its tempo decreasing to a soft, whimsical beat, and Emma rests her chin against his shoulder next to her hand. Killian draws her closer, pressing against her back, and they sway, revolving in slow unison on the spot.

Hanging by their sides, her hand still grasps his hook, and she hums quietly along with the music as they dance. Their position puts his chin in a similar spot above her shoulder. Killian fights the urge to turn his face into her neck, but it's a losing battle and he gives in far too easily.

With his nose pressed against her skin, he inhales deeply and closes his eyes. She smells of leather and honey and spice, and he thinks he might be content to do nothing more than stand here with her like this for the night.

Emma stills their dance and lifts her chin from his shoulder. "Are you smelling me?" she asks, laughing at him.

She pulls back to look at him but her hand still rests on his shoulder.

"I apologize, love. I'm afraid I got caught up in the moment." Killian tries to step out of her embrace but Emma holds firm, still grasping his hook and his shoulder at arm's length. Something akin to determination flashes across her face and she steps closer to him again.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asks.

He has said a lot of things and he's not quite sure to what she is referring.

"You said you'd still want to kiss me, even when I look like this," she clarifies, "did you mean it?"

His heart thunders in his chest with anticipation. "Aye, you know I did, love."

Emma shifts even closer and looks up at him, a coy smile on her face. "Well then pirate, what are you waiting for?"

Without hesitation he leans forward, closing the gap between them, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss. She's still momentarily and he brushes his lips against hers lightly, moving slowly, waiting for a response. Emma releases a breathy sigh, moves against him, and he's lost.

Killian tries to keep it light, he really does, but the taste of her lips and the warm weight of her pressed against his chest are slowly driving him mad with lust. His arm loops around her waist and when Emma's fingers fist in the hair at the base of his skull, he breaks the kiss regretfully with a groan. He needs to stop now before he gets too carried away.

With their foreheads resting together, he takes a deep breath.

"Why'd you stop?" Emma asks innocently, her breath sweet against his lips. Her fingers are still warm against the back of his neck and he's painfully hard within the confines of his leather breeches; worked into a frenzy by a simple kiss.

"Because, darling..." he breathes, taking a small step back and releasing her, "if I don't stop now, I shan't be held responsible for my actions. And trust me, you're not ready for that yet."

She glances downward and her eyes widen slightly in comprehension. "Oh..."

"You've far too much of an effect on me, love," Killian says, opening his flask and taking a drink.

"Sorry," Emma apologises, but her eyes sparkle with levity and she doesn't look very remorseful.

"No need to apologize, it's not necessarily a bad thing. However, I do think it would be best if you slept in your own bed tonight."

At the mention of sleep, Emma stifles a yawn.

"But if you need me," Killian begins.

"I know where to find you," she finishes for him.

Impulsively, she leans into him with a hand against his chest and presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Goodnight, Killian," she says sweetly, before disappearing below deck.

Alone in the dark, Killian adjusts his trousers and leans against the wheel, sipping on rum while he stares out over the blackened waves; he's in trouble here, it's a sweet, torturous trouble, but it's trouble all the same.


	9. Chapter Eight

A/N: Here's another chapter for all my lovely readers! It feels like -35 Celsius here today (that's -31 Fahrenheit), so I'm spending the day holed up inside to avoid the bitter cold. Is anyone else way past ready for winter to be over?

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><p>Emma wakes cold and shivering in her own bed. She pulls the blankets tighter around herself but it makes little difference. The air is frigid and she can see the frozen cloud of her breath with each shaky exhale in the dimly lit cabin.<p>

It's not yet morning, her cursed skin still visible in the gloomy light. She's drowsy but it's too cold to sleep. Of all the nights for Killian to suggest sleeping in her own bed, it had to be when the temperature plummeted, icy discomfort filling the air. Shivering violently, her teeth chatter audibly and she thinks to hell with it; Killian did say to find him if she needed him, she reasons, and right now she needs his body heat.

Emma wraps the blanket tightly around her shoulders and pads quietly down the hall to his cabin. She turns the knob, easing the door open and closing it behind her softly. His quarters are just as cold as hers and he's sleeping snuggly under several blankets. His features are relaxed, boyish in slumber and she wonders if she can slide into the bunk without waking him.

Tip-toeing to the side of the bed, she sheds her blanket and lifts the edge of his, quickly sliding underneath. The heat radiating from his body envelopes her in its warm embrace and she snuggles down into the covers, trying to warm up.

"Everything alright, love?" Killian's voice is quiet, slurred with sleep. He cracks an eye open just wide enough to watch her.

Apparently she wasn't as stealthy as she thought.

"Just cold," she says, shivering, "seems winter isn't quite over yet."

"C'mere." Killian reaches out to her under the blankets, pulling her towards him. He's so incredibly warm and she moves willingly into his arms. Her fingers brush against his bare chest and he inhales sharply. "Blood hell woman, you're freezing," he grumbles, sleepily.

It's only then that Emma notices he's shirtless. He has her pulled solidly against him in a heartbeat; her head tucked below his chin and her hands against his breastbone, chest hair tickling the backs of her knuckles. Killian's arms wrap tightly around her and within moments, his breathing once again levels out into the steady cadence of slumber.

Her nose is pressed against his collarbone and he smells wonderful; a heady combination of leather, salt, and musky masculinity. It's comforting and arousing all at the same time and she gives in to the urge to comb her fingers through his chest hair, continuing to play with it unconsciously as her mind wanders back to their kiss.

The light, barely-there brushes of his lips against hers at first. Soon deepening with a sense of urgency, consuming her, yet somehow remaining impossibly gentle. She'd been so caught up in the moment that she hadn't even noticed her fingers fisting at his dark locks until he pulled away, trying to compose himself.

She's intrigued by the effect she has on him; how obviously he wants more. She's conflicted though, at odds with everything she knows she's supposed to be. She's a princess, she's not supposed to be sharing a bed, no matter how innocent the act, with any man, especially a _pirate_ that she's only known for little more than a week. Sure she's old enough to be betrothed; if her life had gone as her parents had wished, she'd probably be married by now, possibly expecting a child. But it didn't, and now she finds herself seeking the contact she was so long deprived of in the arms of a deeply damaged man; a brother turned pirate, a lover turned martyr.

There's definitely a mutual attraction, she can't deny that, but she has a hard time believing it could ever become more. He may be attracted to her and he's certainly been kind, but he's clearly still in love with Milah, and revenge is a cruel mistress, binding him to the past. And, well, she's cursed. In less than six months, unless she somehow miraculously finds true love, it's likely that she'll be gone from this physical plane forever, doomed to spend an eternity alone.

A large part of her wants to hold onto the hope of a happy ending, but another part, lodged like a burr under a saddle, pokes at her persistently, grates at that hope, wearing it down, and she wonders if maybe she shouldn't just enjoy the time she has left.

Exhausted and finally warm, she sighs, her mind made up. Come what may, she's going to make the most of her remaining days. If she's doomed to spend infinity alone, she's sure as hell going to take some good memories with her.

Snuggling closer to Killian, she wraps an arm around his waist and nuzzles against his neck. Drowsily, Emma places an open mouthed kiss to his collarbone before finally allowing sleep to claim her.

* * *

><p>Gossamer strands of golden hair caress his lips and Killian wakes to the delightful presence of Emma in his bed. He vaguely remembers her joining him sometime time in the wee hours before dawn; cold and shivering, instinctually seeking his warmth.<p>

She's warm now; a sweltering ball of fire pressed to his chest, clinging to him, twined round his limbs, stoking the glowing embers low in his stomach. She's still sleeping, entirely unaware of the beast she stirs within. Her left hand pressed against his bare chest, and her right hand low on his back. Her legs are locked with his, trapping his knee between her thighs.

It's the sweetest of torture and he groans quietly against the top of her head. For the sake of his sanity he knows he should push her away, but instead he finds himself drawing her closer.

His movements wake her and Emma pulls back slightly to look at him. A slow smile spreads across her face and there's something different in her eyes. Resolve burns there, deep in the green of her irises, and the look she gives him is anything but innocent.

"Good morning," she says, stretching against him.

Her hip brushes against his leather covered arousal and there's no way she can't feel it, but she doesn't pull away or try to escape like she did just the morning before. No, instead she stays in his arms and runs her fingers through his chest hair. He grabs her hand, stilling it when her fingers venture lower.

"Emma..." he growls in warning. He's not entirely sure what's come over her, but if she's not careful, she's most definitely going to be_ under_ him.

"Yes?" She grins at him cheekily, pressing more fully against him.

"You don't want to do this, love." He tries to pull back but she's stronger than she looks and the wall at his back halts his retreat.

Frustration and discontent flash in her eyes and she glares at him. "Who the hell are you to tell me what I want?"

He expects her to flee in anger, but she remains stubbornly in his arms.

"Look love, I don't pretend to understand what's going through that mind of yours, but I do know that I'm not the sort of man you should be giving yourself to." Killian sighs. "You're a princess and you deserve more than to be sullied by a broken-down pirate with a blackened heart."

"And you deserve more than centuries of heartache and vengeance," Emma states, emphatically, "but news flash, Killian; we don't always get what we deserve. Both our lives are proof enough of that."

She looks at him with haunted eyes. "In less than six months, I'm probably going to be dead, or a ghost, whatever. I don't know what the future will bring, but what I do know, is that I cannot sit idly by and do nothing. I can't live on some vague hope that everything will work out. All I can do is live in the here and now and try to experience as much as I can in the time I have left."

Emma runs a finger along the stubble on his jaw. "And right now, _you_," she pokes at his chest, "are my here and now."

The lass certainly makes a compelling argument and he finds himself yielding yet again. If she wishes to spend her time romping around in bed with him, who is he to deny her? He's going to do this right though; he's no prince and he's assuredly not worthy of her affections, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't treat her with the respect she deserves.

"Alright, love," he concedes.

The bravado on her face flickers, dwindling slightly, but she smiles when he shifts closer to her again.

In one smooth movement, he topples her to her back and captures her lips in a bruising kiss. Braced on both arms, his body covers hers, pressing her lightly into the mattress as he tastes her, sweet and succulent. Her lips meet his eagerly and he kisses her for several moments before sliding from the bed to stand in the cold room.

Emma lays wide-eyed and flushed on the bed, staring up at him. She props herself up on her elbows and bright green eyes watch him acquisitively; trailing down his chest and stomach to where he strains against the laces of his breeches. Finally her gaze returns to his face and she frowns. "But you said..."

"And we will," he promises, "but not just yet."

The look of disappointment on her face is almost comical and he can scarcely believe he's actually agreed to go through with this. Taking the virginity of a princess is not something a pirate is asked to do, well, _ever_. He's not going to rush it.

"Patience is a virtue, Emma," Killian says as he dons his blouse and reattaches his hook.

"Yeah, so I've been told. Doesn't change the fact that I've never been any good at it."

He chuckles at that and starts buttoning his shirt. His injured hand is already feeling much better and he completes the task without much difficulty. When he finishes dressing, she's sitting at the edge of the bunk with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching his every move.

Offering his hand, Killian pulls her from the bed and into his arms. Emma collides with his chest releasing a quiet grunt.

"It may seem cruel," he pecks at her lips, "but I promise you Emma, it will be worth the wait."

He runs his fingers down her back, feeling the heat of her through the thin cotton of her shirt. It's not just her that he's torturing with this slow burn, and he wants nothing more than to lift her up against the wall and have his wicked way with her, but he's nothing if not a man of patience. His thumb dips under the hem of her shirt, caressing silken skin just above the waist of her pants; one last teasing stroke before he turns her toward the door and sends her on her way with a solid pat on her rear.

"Alright love, go put on something warm and meet me above deck."

Shocked, she looks over her shoulder at him, and he raises an eyebrow, daring her to object.

Emma just shakes her head, looking at him like he's a madman (he might just be) and leaves his room without a word.

* * *

><p>When she joins Killian above deck, it's still unbelievably cold out, but the sight before her steals the breath from her lungs and wipes all other thoughts from her mind. Nearly every single inch of the ship is covered in a thick layer of hoarfrost. The Jolly Roger sparkles, a bright white majestic sculpture in the brilliant morning sun.<p>

The deck is slick as she makes her way over to Killian.

"This is amazing," she says, in awe.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He leans with his back against the wheel, looking up at the frost covered lines and sails.

"I've never seen anything quite like it," she admits.

When Emma reaches his post by the helm, he lifts his arm and tucks her against his side, shielding her from the cold wind. The movement is instinctual, unbelievably natural and she suspects it's born of some deep-seated need to be the protector. They stand in relative silence as the sun gradually climbs higher in the sky, thawing the icy ship.

She's actually surprised that Killian is insisting on taking things slow. She'd thought for sure that he would have jumped at the opportunity to bed her; the man all but exudes sex and it's glaringly obvious that he wants her, physically at least. It makes sense that he'd have patience though; he's certainly had more than enough time to hone that particular skill. Perhaps he just wants to be sure that she is resolute in her decision.

She's nervous, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't, but she stands by her choice; this is something she wants. He may be a pirate with enough emotional baggage to sink a small ship, but he's been kind to her and that's more than she's had in years. He doesn't think he's worthy of her, she can tell that much, but she really doesn't care about rules and royal decorum.

In all honestly, the thought of meeting with suitor after suitor when she returns to her kingdom is both exhausting and more than a little repulsive. She didn't like the idea of being handed off to a strange man as a child and she's no more fond of it now. Chances are her parents will probably still expect it of her when she returns, but until that time comes, she's going to live her life as she sees fit.

Looking up at Killian, she elbows him gently in the side. "So Captain," she says cheekily, "what's on the agenda for today?"

"How's your sword play, love?" he asks, stepping from her side and strolling across the deck to sift through an old trunk.

"More than a little rusty," she admits. Her father worked with her weekly as a young girl, insisting that if she wanted to ride horses and shoot a bow, she ought to be able to wield a sword as well. The art never came easily to her, not as it had with the bow. Every step, every strike, parry, and thrust required careful thought and concentration. She wasn't terrible at it by any means, but compared to the effortless ease with which she handled the bow, the sword seemed less like an extension of her own being and more like a lead weight.

"Heads up, lass!" Killian calls as he gently tosses a sword her way. She catches it with surprising ease, fingers curling around the hilt. It's smaller and lighter than anything she ever saw her father carry; the blade is shorter and slightly curved. It's quite dull; she runs her gloved fingers along the edge, glad they'll be practicing with blunted swords.

Killian comes at her quickly, catching her off guard and she barely manages to raise her sword in time to block his blow.

"What the hell?" she yelps, trying to find her footing on the slippery deck. He doesn't give her any time to adjust, coming at her again and again, driving her backwards. Clumsily, Emma focuses solely on deflecting his lightning-fast strikes, using both hands to hold the sword against his sudden onslaught.

Her arms ache, her muscles tensing with each reverberating clash of their swords. She's breathless and exhausted and the damn pirate, he's just grinning smugly, easily swinging his sword in smooth one handed motions.

Too late, she realizes that he's backed her into a corner, shoulders pressed against icy wood. With a devilish grin, he easily disarms her, sending her sword clattering across the deck. The point of his sword rests a hairs breadth away from her breastbone, just above the buttoned V of her shirt and she can feel the cold press of metal against her skin with each inhale.

She raises an eyebrow and mirrors his grin. "Well Captain," she looks down at the sword and then back up at him, "it appears that I'm entirely at your mercy."

His eyes flash brilliant blue in the sunlight, and in one fluid motion, he sheaths his sword and presses her into the wall, his body flush against her. She kisses him boldly, gripping at his lapel and reaching into the warmth beneath his jacket.

When Killian is well and thoroughly distracted, his hook at her hip and his hand tangled in her hair, she slides her hand further, searching. Her fingers close around warm steel and she deftly slides the small knife from the lining of his jacket. She was right in her assumption that a man like him would keep an additional blade hidden on his person.

She presses the small dagger faintly against the stubble beneath his jaw and he chuckles into the kiss. "You're a clever one, aren't you love?" His voice is thick, gravelly and amused.

Lowering her hand, she removes the blade from his neck. "How does it feel to be bested by a princess?" she taunts against his lips.

His answering growl snakes all the way from her lips to her belly, coiling low and hot between her thighs. She wants to push him, taunt him, force him into action; keep him from putting this off, but evidently the man is as stubborn and bullheaded as she is, because he simply backs away from her and bends to retrieve her fallen sword from the floor.

Handing it to her, he draws his own. "Again." he insists, with a smirk.


	10. Chapter Nine

A/N: It's been a busy week, but I'm finally getting a chapter up! I hope you'll forgive me for the wait - you should, because this one is officially rated M! To be honest, this entire chapter is basically smut...

So enjoy!

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><p>The days wage on and weeks pass, but Killian moves at an agonizingly slow pace; filling the hours with sweet kisses and long stories, lingering looks and teasing caresses.<p>

Some days she reads, and others they spar, both swords and words clashing together as he corrects her form and sharpens her skills. At night she lays in his bed, tucked snuggly in his arms; sometimes watching him sleep, allowing her thoughts to wander, and other times watching the visions play out in startling clarity before her eyes, rarely sleeping until the hour grows late and exhaustion overwhelms her.

In the mornings, she wakes to the feel of him, pressed stiff and incredibly warm against her.

Until now, she's been content to follow his slow, rather measured lead, but lately their progression has all but stilled, moving at a glacial pace and she's frustrated beyond belief. She's ready for more than intentionally brief touches through clothing; more than tempting words and thinly veiled desire.

By Killian's count, they'll reach the port nearest her kingdom in less than two weeks and she's tired of wasting time. Spring has come, bringing with it mild days and shorter nights. They haven't seen a truly cold day since that morning two weeks ago and Emma grows increasingly restless as the days grow longer.

The afternoon is balmy, rather windy, but the sun shines brightly. She's sitting on deck, comfortable without her jacket, a book open in her lap. She's distracted by her thoughts and when the breeze flutters the pages and she loses her spot for the tenth time in as many minutes, she slams the book shut with a sigh and stands.

Killian sits by the helm, mending sailcloth, absentmindedly humming as he works. His jacket is thrown across the barrel beside him and the wind gusts through his dark locks. He looks positively enticing and she walks towards him with purpose. He adds a final few stitches to the sail, and then fixes her with a smile that renders her speechless.

"Emma darling, why don't you stow these away." He folds the sail and adds it to the pile. "Then come join me below in my quarters, let's say in about ten minutes."

She starts to protest, but he hushes her with a firm kiss. "Trust me love, I'll make it worth your while."

Without another word, Killian heads below deck and she groans, collecting the heavy sails. He stores the extras in a weatherproof chest at the other end of the ship and she takes her time putting them away. She's not sure what he's up to, but she refuses to get her hopes up.

Collecting his jacket and her book, she figures she's waited long enough. Heading below deck, she pushes the door to his cabin open with her foot.

"Okay Mister, what are you..." the question dies on her lips.

Killian has just finished filling the large wooden bathtub and a bucket hangs from his hook. She looks at him, shocked.

"Is that – did you draw a bath for me?" she asks, setting his jacket and her book down on the table.

"For us," he corrects, "it's an awful lot of work to heat this much water, I don't intend to let you enjoy it alone."

She just looks at him, her mouth opening and closing, gaping like a fish out of water.

"So long as that's fine by you?"

Emma nods, speechless. This bath, him, all of it; it's terror and excitement all wrapped up in one ridiculous mess of a package that she can't wait to open.

Killian offers his hand and she takes it, stepping closer to him. Steam rises from the tub and she can smell soothing notes of milk and honey.

He kisses her softly as he slowly undoes the buttons of her blouse, thumb and fingers working skillfully together. When he reaches the bottom button, he pulls back to look at her, pupils dilated in the dim light of the cabin, seeking permission.

Boldly, she shrugs the shirt from her shoulders, baring herself to him. He inhales softly, his eyes roving over her, his gaze caressing her breasts, making its way down the flat plains of her stomach before returning to her face. He looks like a starving man, and she feels like a feast under his hungry watch, but he doesn't touch her except to take her hand and move it to his vest.

She undoes the buttons of both his vest and shirt in a far less elegant manner than that which he bestowed upon her, roughly pushing them from his shoulders and becoming frustrated when they tangle over his hook.

He chuckles and detaches the hook from his brace, helping her remove his shirt. She traces the leather straps of his brace, fingering the buckles. Certainly he doesn't expect to bathe with this on.

"Can I?" she questions, hesitantly.

Killian's eyes cloud over, his expression dark and she berates herself silently, hands falling to her sides. She shouldn't have asked. She never knows where the line is with this man, it's invisible and always changing, and while she's cautious not to overstep, sometimes in her haste, she forgets to proceed with caution, to hold her tongue.

She's surprised when he takes her hand reluctantly and moves it to the brace, nodding for her to continue. She slides the leather through the buckles, loosening each strap, preparing to pull it off. His hand comes to rest over hers before she can, and she looks up at him with a reassuring smile.

This situation - baring her body - should be more nerve-racking for her, but she has the feeling not many people have seen what he hides beneath the hook.

"It's alright, I promise I won't scream and run away like a little girl." She tosses familiar words back at him, and he looks at her in awe, removing his hand and allowing her to pull the brace from his arm.

The skin is puckered, uneven and scarred, but it's far from a ghastly sight. She trails her fingers lightly over the bumpy texture and stretches up to place a kiss against his lips, wanting him to know, to understand that this mangled part of him doesn't bother her, that she doesn't think any less of him for it. In doing so, her breasts inadvertently come into contact with his chest and she gasps at the coarse brush of his chest hair against her nipples. The sensation is foreign but startling in its perfection, and she leans against his warmth, seeking more, deepening the kiss.

Killian holds her close, fingers ghosting down her spine and she can feel the thick ridge of his arousal pressed against her belly through the material of his pants. Breaking the kiss, their foreheads still touching, she looks down to where he strains against tense laces. She traces the band where leather meets flesh, her fingers coming together and hesitating above the laces, knuckles brushing against the hair that trails beneath.

"Go ahead love, promise it won't bite." His nose bumps against hers, his tone light, encouraging, and she moves her fingers to the knotted laces, emboldened.

Pulling at the knot, she undoes it and works at loosening the laces. Killian shifts his hips slightly and his erection springs forth as his pants sag low on his hips.

"Oh!" she says in surprise and he chuckles, breath warm against her lips, his thumb tracing invisible patterns on her hip.

Intrigued, she reaches out to touch him, fingers stroking silk covered steel, circling, exploring. His strained hiss draws her sights upward to where his eyes are closed, jaw clenched. His hand on her hip is bruising, fingers digging into flesh and she slides her hands back to his pants, pushing them from his hips. He must have taken his shoes off earlier, because he steps easily out of his pants, standing completely bare before her.

The man is stunning, all lean muscle, dark hair, and keen blue eyes. She wants to explore every inch of him, but suddenly he's kneeling before her to pull the boots from her feet. She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder as he bares her feet, and before she knows it, he's standing again, his hand at the waist of her pants, fingers dipping under the edge, teasing against the sensitive skin of her lower belly. Without further warning, he tugs her breeches downward, gently easing them from her legs.

She stands naked before him, and he studies her carefully, azure eyes fixated on her with staggering intensity. He doesn't touch her though; instead he steps into the tub, and offers his hand, silently asking her to join him.

The water is hot and she sighs happily as he eases them down into its depths with her back to his chest. His erection strains insistently against her lower back but he makes no move to do anything about it, seemingly content to rest with her in the cloudy bath water.

Grabbing a cup from a small table next to the bath, he dunks it under the surface, filling it.

"Slide forward for me, love," he requests, his voice hot against her ear.

She does as instructed. "Good, now tilt your head back."

Closing her eyes, she feels Killian pour warm water over her head, wetting her hair. He combs his hand through her locks, massaging her scalp and the sweet-sour scent of lemon crème assaults her senses. He's working the zesty sweet soap through her hair and she hums pleasantly at the feeling, reminded of the times as a young child when her mother used to wash her hair.

This is an entirely different situation though; she's not a kid anymore, and this isn't her mother helping her bathe. No, there's a naked, clearly aroused, three hundred year old pirate sitting in the tub with her, washing her hair in the most ridiculously caring manner and she's struck by how absolutely surreal this all is.

He rinses the suds from her hair carefully and when he's done, he pulls her back against him with an arm under her breasts. It's the closest he's come to actually touching her intimately and she squirms against him in frustration.

"Killian..." she all but whines, and he laughs, sweeping her hair to one side and nuzzling behind her ear, scruff and hot open-mouthed kisses assaulting the tender skin of her neck. His hand returns unmoving to its place against her ribs and she huffs, wanting more.

She reaches behind her and wraps her fingers around him firmly, catching him by surprise. He bites down on the flesh of her shoulder and groans her name. She releases her grip and twists in his arms slightly to face him.

His eyes are dark, stormy pools of deep-sea blue and the expression on his face is pained.

"I'm trying to do right by you here love," he insists. "Do you have any idea how much restraint it takes? Do you?" His expression grows dark and his voice deepens. "To stop myself from tossing you on that bed and _fucking_ you senseless? To have my way with you? Hard and deep."

The words spilling forth from his lips are dark and dangerous, but he doesn't scare her. She wants this, she wants him; she can see the passion boiling away beneath the surface and she doesn't want him to suppress it any longer.

"So why don't you? I'm not objecting," she jabs, hoping to provoke him into action. She reaches for him again and he catches both of her wrists in his hand, effectively restraining her.

"Because you deserve better than this, better than me, you're a princess..."

"_ENOUGH_ with the princess bullshit!" She wrenches her hands from his grasp and turns, kneeling in the tub to face him.

She cups his jaw, forcing him to look at her. "Stop treating me like I'm made of glass, okay? I'm not gonna break if you touch me. Enough with all of this stupid nobility, I get that you don't think you're good enough for me, and you know what? I think it's crap. I'm here and I want you and that's more than enough."

Leaning forward she kisses him, balancing her weight with a palm against his chest and her fingers in his hair. It takes a moment but soon his arms encircle her, one against the back of her thighs lifting her and settling her over his legs. He's pressed hard against her belly and his hand holds her to him as he devours her mouth.

Without warning he stands in the tub, hoisting her with him and she has no choice but to wrap her arms and legs around him to prevent herself from falling. His hand cups her bare bottom, supporting her weight, and he's pressed between her legs.

They're dripping water all over the floor as he carries her to the bed and hair is still sopping, dripping down her back and saturating the mattress when he deposits her on the mattress, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

Standing, magnificent above her, he takes a deep breath.

"This is the last time I'll ask love," he runs his hand through his hair, "are you positive you wish to go through with this?"

Looking up at him, she holds out her hand. "Yes. Now get over here."

He's on her in an instant, a flurry of movement pressing her into the mattress, fingers, lips, tongue and teeth working in tandem. He's everywhere at once, kissing, nipping, sucking, squeezing, touching, and she's entirely unprepared, completely floored by the intensity of his assault.

Heat swirls, flowing, blossoming into a relentless ache between her legs and she clutches at his hair when his mouth covers her nipple, warm wet heat bending her spine into an arch against him. He laves her other breast with the same glorious treatment before kissing his way back to her lips.

Kissing her softly, his hand trails down her stomach, making its way to the slickness between her legs.

"Bloody hell, Emma," he groans against her lips, stroking her gently.

She clings to him unable to do anything but succumb to the fire he stokes within her. His fingers move skillfully against her, stroking, circling, alternating between firm pressure and feather light caresses, driving her higher and higher until she peaks, shuddering, her hips thrashing, arching from the bed as she comes crashing back down, a quivering mess.

"Fuck," she breathes as he continues to touch her lightly, fingers dipping into warm depths.

"My sentiments precisely, love."

Gathering her wits, she feels him still hot and hard against her thigh and she reaches for him, but he stops her, wet fingers twining with her own.

Killian moves to kneel between her legs, his arousal resting thick and heavy against her, and she breathes heavily in anticipation of what comes next. She runs her hands over his chest and down his stomach, taking full advantage of his position, admiring him in the warm glow of the lantern lit cabin.

But despite the light, his features are dark again, conflicted. He's thinking too much. She doesn't want him to think. She wants him to act. She doesn't want to delve too deeply into why they're doing this and all the reasons they probably shouldn't be. She doesn't want to contemplate repercussions, consequences or fallout. She doesn't want to analyze, she just wants to stop thinking and start feeling.

The charms dangle from the chain around his neck and she grabs them, pulling him down, forcing his lips to hers. He leans heavily on his bad arm, keeping most of his weight from resting on her as he kisses her desperately and palms his way down over her breasts, her stomach, to between her thighs where she anxiously awaits his touch.

First one finger enters her, then a second and he works at her relentlessly, kissing her deeply, lips and tongue hot against her own, trailing down her neck, beard scratching roughly against her skin, as he slowly builds her up again.

When she's all but quaking under his touch, he stops and she whimpers pitifully at the loss. With a gentle nip at her breast he rises up and pulls her hips toward him, adjusting her position on the bed. He's pressed full and thick against her now and she shudders when he grasps himself, dragging his length up and down against her several times, coating himself in her heat before pressing softly against her entrance.

Stilling he releases a shaky breath and his eyes lift to meet hers. He looks almost scared, eyes wide, breath shallow and she finds it absurd that he's the hesitant half of this equation. She smiles up at him and nods, a silent communication, giving him the permission that he seems to unconsciously seek, and he bends, coming down to rest over her, his forehead against her shoulder as he pushes into her slowly.

With his hips pressed tightly against her own, he pauses, allowing her time to adjust, and she suspects, from the rigid strain of muscles under her fingers, himself as well. The feel of him inside her isn't nearly as uncomfortable as she had expected; more pressure than pain, a new sense of fullness that she longs to explore, but all the same, she appreciates his considerate approach.

She wiggles her hips experimentally against his, and she can practically hear his jaw clench, teeth grinding together as he groans into her shoulder.

"You can move now," she whispers against his temple, slick with salty sweat.

He grunts in response, his head turning, lips and teeth worrying at her neck as he finally moves, withdrawing slowly before rocking back into the cradle of her hips. She clings to him, riding the cresting wave of his hips as he crashes against her, time after time. The pace he sets is steady, unhurried, but soon becomes agonizing in its lack of speed.

Shifting her legs higher on his hips, she disrupts his rhythm and pulls his face up to hers. His gaze is avoidant and he won't meet her eyes, so she stills beneath him.

"Hey, look at me," she requests, and when he finally does, his expression is pained, desperate, his features tense.

"I'm not going to break okay?" She sweeps the dark locks from his forehead. "You won't hurt me Killian, so stop holding back and just _move_."

Something inside him seems to snap at her words, his resistance crumbling and he kisses her forcefully, hand coming up under her bottom, holding her hips to his as he thrusts into her with purpose.

It's breathtaking, the feel of him moving within her, over her, against her, powerfully, finally without restraint. His movements quickly grow frantic and his hand moves to where they're joined, fingers circling, touching her skillfully, and she pants against his mouth, clutching at his back as the building pressure swells, crests, and suddenly unravels, her legs sliding from his hips in boneless pleasure to the mattress.

One, two, three more thrusts, and he's pulling from her with a strangled groan, his release spilling across her belly, sticky heat pooling in her navel as he collapses to her side, his head resting against her breast, over her pounding heart.

* * *

><p>Emma's heart thunders loudly in her chest, where his ear is pressed above her breast and he relishes the sound of it, strong and steady, tethering him to reality and bringing him back to himself.<p>

He can't move. He doesn't want to risk shattering the moment, ruining whatever this is. His mangled wrist rests across her ribs and her fingers rest warmly atop it, stroking softly against numbed nerves and angry scars. Her capacity to read him, to say just what he needs in the moment is astounding; he doesn't understand how, after being alone for years, witness to so much darkness, she can still shine so bright, be capable of such understanding and affection.

He's had plenty of women over the years, but those encounters have always been meaningless, enjoyable yes, but never has he spared even a passing thought to their significance. He hasn't truly connected with anyone since Milah, and maybe after hundreds of years his memories of her are finally fading because he can't remember ever feeling anything this intense, this absolutely terrifyingly perfect.

"_Fuck_," he mutters against her breast, because really, what else is there to say? He's completely wrecked; mentally and physically ripped to shreds, and he's not sure how else to break the silence that has descended over them.

Emma's chest shakes beneath him in silent laughter and her hand comes up to comb through his hair. "Yeah, I'd say that about sums it up," she declares, still laughing.

Her laughter is happy, bright and full of joy, and despite everything he's feeling, it relaxes him, working its way inside and forcing a smile to his lips.

"It's bad form to laugh at a man in bed, love." He pokes her in the ribs and she squeals, squirming beneath him, smearing his release from her stomach to his as she rolls to her side to face him.

Green eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, irresistible, and all he can do is kiss her again.

When they part, she studies his face intently before looking down at the sticky mess between them. "Think that water is still somewhat warm?" she asks with a crooked smile before looking over her shoulder at the tub.

"Only one way to find out," he sweeps her damp wavy locks over her shoulder, "go ahead and get in, I'll just strip these blankets, then come join you."

She places a kiss to his cheek and slides from the bed, walking gingerly to the tub, all long limbs and pale skin and golden hair. His release shines on her stomach in the low light and desire stirs within him once more.

It's been but minutes and he wants to take her again, have her over him, under him, around him, wants to mark her lovely pale skin with his teeth and his tongue, the rough scrape of his beard burning red between her thighs. He wishes he could spill his essence deep within her, but he can't and he won't, for so many reasons.

"You gonna join me any time soon?" she calls, already settled in the tub, watching him with curious eyes.

He pulls the blankets from the bed with one hand, allowing them to pile on the floor at his feet before heading to the tub. Emma slides forward and he settles in the tub behind her. The water has cooled but it's not unpleasant, especially when Emma settles back warmly against his chest. She's knotted her hair in a messy bun atop her head to keep it from getting wet again and he can see the marks from his teeth and beard against her neck.

Stroking at them softly, he presses a kiss over a red-purple bruise. "I suppose I'll have to be more discrete with where I place these love bites. I don't imagine your parents will be very fond of me if they find out I ravaged their long lost daughter, even if it was at her request."

Emma laughs, running her hands along his thighs under the water. "No, definitely not."

"So what do you think, love? Maybe here," he strokes the side of her breast under the water, "or perhaps here?" His fingers tiptoe down to the silky skin high on her inner thigh and she grips at his legs, nails curling into flesh as her thighs part willingly for him.

As much as he'd like to have her again, he remembers how she gingerly walked over to the tub and he doesn't want to exhaust her tender flesh, so he withdraws his hand and reaches for a cloth on the table.

"Tomorrow," he promises when she frowns, "you'll be sore if I take you again tonight."

Wetting the cloth, he gently cleanses the skin of her stomach and between her legs. When he finishes, she takes it from his hand and turns in the water to face him, much like she had before. He closes his eyes, reclining his head against the lip of the tub as her hands run the cloth over his chest and stomach, down his arms and up his legs, bathing him leisurely.

Her ministrations are somehow both arousing and relaxing and while he's semi-erect when her hand circles around him, he feels as if lead weights are resting upon his eyelids.

"Let's go back to bed." Emma presses a kiss to his lips. "Would be a shame if you fell asleep in the tub and drowned."

He opens his eyes and she smiles sweetly at him before standing and stepping from the tub. Apparently she knows her way around his quarters quite well now, because she easily finds a couple towels, handing one to him and wrapping the other around herself before pulling blankets from a chest and making up the bed. She's dried off and shrugging into his shirt by the time he finally gets his wits about him and rises from the water.

She looks positively perfect dressed in nothing but his shirt and a smile and he dries himself off while she slips from the room with the soiled laundry.

Night must have fallen, because when she returns, her hair and skin are silvery white and the black of his shirt stands out in even starker contrast against the pallor of her flesh. He's already tucked under the blankets and she blots out the lanterns, bathing the cabin in darkness before snuggling in next to him.

"You're naked," she states, a rather obvious fact.

"That I am, love." He stifles a yawn and pulls her to him.

She seems to contemplate something briefly before sitting up and pulling his shirt over her head. It's dark, but he can still see the pale glow of her body before she slides back under the blankets and into his arms. Her ribs and hipbones are more pronounced, exaggerated by her curse, but she's still the most beautiful thing he's seen in years and he tells her as much.

Pale grey eyes regard him skeptically but she presses a kiss to his lips and snuggles into his chest anyway. He knows she won't sleep yet, she never does this early in the night, always preferring to stay awake and await the visions. Normally he would stay up with her for a while, but tonight the warm press of her naked body against his is lulling him into a slumber that he can't fight.

"Good night, Emma," he whispers against her temple before the night claims him.


	11. Chapter Ten

A/N: Another chapter for all my lovely readers. :)

* * *

><p>Emma bolts upright in bed, ripped from peaceful dreams by a vision. She hadn't intended to sleep, but the calming sounds of Killian breathing must have pulled her under. The last thing she remembers was snuggling naked in his arms, enjoying the heat and contrasting textures of his hair and skin pressed against her.<p>

Beside her Killian wakes as well; disrupted by her sudden movements he rises to sit with her, pulling her into his lap and encircling her in his arms. She feel the warm press of his bare skin against her, around her, under her, but her attention is divided, the vision demanding the majority of her awareness.

The Evil Queen strides with purpose, her guards flanking her as she moves through the small town. Emma recognizes it immediately as the small seaside port they had visited a couple weeks ago and dread fills her chest. This is far from the first time the Evil Queen has featured in her visions and she's knows without a doubt, that what's coming next won't be pleasant.

Regina ascends the steps to the docks and with a callous flick of her wrist, ropes uncoil and slither forth to bind the dock master tightly in their grasp, suspending him in the air before her.

She holds out a hand and one of her guards places a scroll in her palm. She unravels it and displays it for the dock master to see. Emma's face is printed on the parchment; not a younger version of herself like she's seen on the scroll Killian has sitting on his desk, but a current account of her features, the likeliness unmistakable.

"Have you seen this girl?" Regina questions, ropes tightening when the man hesitates.

"Yes – Yes! A couple weeks ago," he answers quickly, eyes bulging as the ropes constrict around him.

"What was her business here? Did she say anything to you?"

The man gasps for breath and the ropes loosen slightly. "I did not speak to her directly, just the man she was with. He paid handsomely to have the ship restocked and for me to keep watch while he took her into town."

"Where were they headed?" her voice is cold and calculating.

The dock master delays, refusing to speak, and Regina plunges her fist into his chest, nails biting around his heart.

"_Where_?" she asks again with malice.

"He – he wanted to know where to purchase riding clothes for the girl, I directed him to the saddlery."

Regina removes her hand from the man's chest but it's not empty. In her fist she holds his heart, glowing red and beating fearfully. She smiles up at him, her grin smug and full of spite, and the man shouts in pain as she squeezes his heart, crumbles it to dust between her fingers.

The ropes retreat as the Evil Queen walks away and the lifeless body of the dock master crumples to the ground with a dull thud.

The scene fades before Emma's eyes, the inky blackness of Killian's cabin coming back into view. She's curled on his lap, her cheek pressed to his shoulder as his hand combs soothingly through her hair, his chin atop her head. It's not the first time he's comforted her like this, but it is the first time they've been naked for it. He doesn't seem to pay any mind to their unclothed state though, simply waiting in silence as he always does, waiting until she's ready to speak.

She doesn't say anything though, not yet. This is the Evil Queen. There will be another death. It's not a matter of if, or even when. It will be soon, she knows it.

Tracing idle patterns against his chest she closes her eyes and lets the scent of him soothe her while she waits for the inevitable to occur. Several short minutes pass far too quickly and soon another vision is swirling to form before her eyes.

A bell clangs cheerily, a glaring contradiction to the scene about to unfold, and two of Regina's guards drag Edith and her husband from the shop to kneel before the Evil Queen on the damp and dirty street.

Knowing what's about to come, Emma grasps at Killian's arm and through the haze of the vision she can feel the warmth of his embrace as he holds her tighter.

It doesn't take long; a few gloating words, a flash of anger and the two kindly shop keepers lay heartless – lifeless in the street. The waitress from the diner meets her end next, followed by the young man who sold Emma her bow.

The Evil Queen's message is clear; anyone who aids Emma in any way, anyone who offers her kindness, be it in words or action, shall meet the same fate as those who have just fallen.

She's struck again by the horrifying reality of just how many people have died for her, because of her (no matter how indirectly), and she wants to scream and cry and bash her fists against the wall until they're raw and bloodied. But she doesn't, her eyes remain dry; instead she just sits wrapped in the arms of a pirate who against all odds seems to actually care for her, accepting comfort she doesn't deserve and allowing the anger and rage and _fucking injustice_ of it all to stew within her, gnawing at her insides.

"It's not your fault, love." Killian presses a kiss to her hair. "None of it is."

She fights the humorless chuckle that bubbles up from somewhere deep within, torn between laughing and crying, the absolute absurdity of what her life has become settling on her conscience.

"If it's not my fault, then why am I the one buried beneath a mountain of guilt?" she asks, not really expecting an answer.

When they come, his words are soft, spoken reverently against her temple. "Because Emma, despite all the darkness life has dealt you, you remain light; you haven't let it tarnish your soul. You still care, even when it would be far easier not to, and that makes you good. So hold onto that part of yourself that cares too much and feels too strongly, because this world needs more people like you love, not less."

His words wash over her and the overwhelming need to just wrap her arms around him and never let go flows through her chest, washing the anger and hatred from her heart. The man has a fucking way with words and as she hugs him tightly, it doesn't escape her, the irony, the fact that he can so easily see the good in her, but not in himself.

She wants him to see the good that she sees in him. She wants to hold up a mirror and make him look at himself, look past the handsome exterior, beyond where heartache swirls with self-loathing, to where she knows that honorable man, that lost little boy lives, but she's never been great with words, always too brash, too blunt. She'd probably just end up calling him an idiot and smacking his head off the mirror in frustration.

So instead she presses her lips to the stubble on his jaw, utters a "thank you," and hugs him for all that she's worth.

It could be minutes or hours; she doesn't know how long they sit embracing silently in the dark room but eventually dawn breaks, her curse retreats, and Killian pulls her back down to the mattress with a sleepy smile and a soft kiss.

* * *

><p>Killian wakes to the feel of Emma pressed to his back; lips against his shoulder blade, fingers curled around his erection, stroking him firmly, pulling him from sleep.<p>

"Bloody hell, love," he presses up into her warm fist, groaning, "if you've plans to wake me up this way each morning, I'll have you know, I wholeheartedly approve."

He feels her lips curve into a smile against his back as her hand continues to work at him leisurely. He knows this will have to stop when they reach her kingdom. They can't be doing any of this with her parents around – the king and queen – _bloody hell_, he still has a hard time believing the reality of the situation, the fact that he currently has a princess in bed with him, naked and grasping his cock.

Less than two weeks and he'll have to give this (her) up; the thought bothers him far more than it should, but he pushes it down, buries it deep where he keeps all the other thoughts he doesn't want to analyze too deeply.

He rolls to his back so he can watch her as she lays next to him, her head propped in her hand, golden locks cascading over her shoulder, the blankets fallen to expose her breasts. Her hand comes up to comb through his chest hair and she smiles naughtily down at him.

Pulling her to him, she topples against his chest with a musical laugh that tugs at his heartstrings. He shakes his head, the lass is a walking contradiction; she's not at all what he pictured when he started out on this journey. He expected a demure princess, a delicate flower, not this bloody siren, this stubborn, mouthy spitfire who seems just as at home naked in his bed as she does with a bow or a sword in her hand.

"You're thinking awfully hard for a man with a naked woman in his bed," she says nuzzling against his stubbled chin.

"Apologises, love," he says, running his fingers up the back of her thigh to the gentle curve of her ass, "where do you suggest I redirect my attentions?" Emma wriggles against him, not so subtly spreading her legs. His fingers dip into wet heat. "Perhaps here?"

She nods, mumbling, her chin bumping against his chest and Killian withdraws his fingers to trace teasing patterns against her inner thigh.

"You'll have to speak up lass, I'm afraid I can't hear you."

"Yes," she speaks against his clavicle.

"Yes, what?" he prompts, teasing, taunting.

Looking up at him, she rolls her eyes, her half-grin negating her irritated tone. "Yes please."

"Please, what love? What shall I do to you? With you?"

Green eyes widen, sparkling, glaring at him with a mixture of mirth and exasperation. He watches fury and laughter dance across her face and for a moment he thinks she might punch him in the gut and leave the bed, but her expression changes and fire burns in her eyes.

She shifts slightly, her torso blanketing his, breasts pressed into his chest as she lowers her mouth to his ear, whispering. "I want you," she pauses, pressing a kiss to his neck, "to fuck me."

The remainder of his blood rushes south and he groans, fighting the urge to lift her over him and impale her on his aching cock. Instead he pulls her up, crashing their lips together, moving his fingers through her slick folds.

She's always insisting that she's not a princess, and he's finally inclined to believe her. She can't be. Princesses are prim and proper. They're dainty and delicate, hiding behind shy smiles. Princesses don't talk like that. _Bloody fucking hell_. Maybe she's a blasted siren, captivating him, calling to him, playing with his mind; he's certainly enchanted and he thinks that if she drags him out to sea and drowns him, so long as he's buried deep in the heat of her, it wouldn't be a bad way to go.

"Goddammit Emma," he growls against her lips, finally giving into the urge to pull her atop him so she straddles his hips, hot wet heat pressing his arousal between his belly and her thighs.

She sits upright, looking down at him with wide green eyes, long golden locks spilling over her shoulders. She's a vision and he rocks his hips beneath her, sliding against her, thumb moving to circle again and again until she's shaking above him and collapsing to his chest with a silent cry.

He's painfully hard when she levers herself up with a hand on his chest and shimmies against him. He needs to be inside her _now_.

"Lift up a bit, love" he instructs, guiding her hips with his hand, positioning her above him. "And back – fuck," he groans as she sinks down on to his length, sheathing him in liquid heat.

He wants to give her time to adjust, he really does, but he needs to move so he thrusts up into her, grinding, seeking friction. Emma slumps forward, propelled by the force of his hips, and braces her hands against his chest. After a moment she starts to shift and he helps guide her movements with his hand curved around the back of her thigh, syncing them in a steady rhythm, admiring how her breasts jiggle with each convergence of their hips.

When she leans forward to kiss him, her hips break rhythm and he stills her motions, bending his knees and pounding into her relentlessly as he slips his hand between them to move against her frantically, determined to bring her with him over the edge. He's been half way there since he woke to the feel of her stroking him and he knows the dam isn't going to hold back this flood for much longer.

She tightens around him, walls fluttering and he thanks the gods when she collapses against his chest with a breathless shudder. Using his hand he angles her hips, arching her back, hammering into her a few more times before yanking her far up his chest, slipping from her warmth and spilling his release across her back and his stomach with a grunt.

She's collapsed awkwardly above him, legs spread wide across his ribs, wet heat pressing into his skin. Her left breast hovers less than an inch from his mouth, so he rises up and grasps her nipple gently between his teeth, swirling his tongue around it.

Humming contentedly, Emma presses a kiss to the top of his head before sliding off him to lay at his right side. Her head pillows on his shoulder and his arm curves around her back instinctually pulling her closer. Her fingers twist and twirl lazy paths through his chest hair and he closes his eyes with a heavy breath, letting himself relax.

Cuddling after sex; it's a luxury he hasn't allowed himself to indulge in for centuries. The act somehow much more intimate than the sex itself; stripped bare, naked and spent, it has the potential to be extremely awkward or extremely peaceful, usually falling somewhere mid-spectrum, not unpleasant, but not necessarily something you want to linger for any length of time.

With Emma though, he feels like he could spend several hours here, lounging naked in bed, trading soft touches and whispered words. The thought and its repercussions are alarming and he's absurdly grateful when Emma breaks the silence with a laugh.

"I think we're going to be doing a lot of laundry the next couple weeks," she says with an impish grin, swiping her finger through the sticky mess still coating his stomach.

"Is that so, love?" he leers at her and gropes at her breast. "And just how often do you expect to be doing _laundry_?"

Emma tilts her head, pretending to ponder his question carefully.

"Oh, I don't know, at least once a day. Maybe twice." She smirks at him. "I think I might really enjoy doing laundry."

Her hand slides down to grasp him loosely and he rolls her to her back with a growl before kissing her boldly.

Banter is safe; trading barbs and innuendos far less dangerous than exchanging kind words and meaningful looks. Yes she's beautiful and smart and funny, and he can't deny that he enjoys her company on his ship and in his bed, but he can't afford to forget his true mission here, the reason he rescued her in the first place. He's spent far too long chasing his revenge to abandon it now. He has a crocodile to skin, and he won't rest until either he himself or the vile monster is dead.

* * *

><p>The next week and a half pass in a whirlwind of hungry kisses and slick flesh. Crashing together again and again until she's fairly certain every inch of her skin has been branded by his lips; beard burn and an array of love-bites, ranging from dark purple to faded yellow, pepper the thin skin of her inner thighs, the crease of her hip and the swell of her breasts.<p>

She remembers the first morning she woke to the feel of him huddled beneath the blankets, head pillowed on her hip, hot breath ghosting across her stomach as his fingers dutifully pulled her from sleep.

She remembers weakly protesting as he kissed his way over the jut of her hip bone and down her thigh, nose nuzzling between her folds, tongue lapping greedily at her opening.

She remembers how quickly the protest died on her lips, the feel of wet heat against wet heat pulling her under, sweeping away her objections, a flowing current too strong to fight.

She remembers her toes curling, the agonizingly sweet clench of muscles, the fiery burn of nerve endings sparking to life before finally letting go and being swept away in a torrent of bliss.

She remembers opening her eyes, blinking slowly to focus her vision as his head popped out from under the blankets, stubbled chin slick with her arousal, a devilish smirk on his face as he placed a kiss in the valley of the breasts and greeted her with a muffled "good morning, love."

Killian has bruises of his own too. A few bite marks mar the tan flesh where shoulder meets collarbone and several more adorn the strong lines where his slim hips merge and his arousal rests thick and wanting.

She'd been hesitant the first time she took him in her mouth, but the strangled groan lodged in his throat and the quiet "Emma" exhaled reverently in a breathy moan was more than enough to spur her on.

He had remained still on the bed, hand fisting tightly, white knuckled in the blankets, watching her, eyes lidded, pleasure rippling across his features. He'd warned her of his impending release, trying to pull her up the bed, but she had just swatted his hand away and continued until he spilled himself in warm salty waves down her throat.

He takes her, in one way or another each morning when they wake up, and they usually spend the remainder of the day keeping the ship in working order and honing her sword play. Her stamina increases steadily and their duels become less one-sided as her skills improve. He teaches her to use her speed and smaller size to her advantage, and she finds herself learning how to read his motions and predict his strikes.

The first time she catches him unaware, tumbling him to the deck with a strike to the back of his knees, she shouts in victory, laughing when he pulls her down to straddle his hips. He's hard against her, even through layers of clothing and soon their swords and clothing lay forgotten to the side as their hips come together frantically, rutting in the midday sun, the thick leather of his jacket separating her bare back from the deck beneath it.

At night, she slips into bed with him, usually naked at his insistence, but he never does more than hold her and kiss her goodnight. It's an unspoken rule; that they don't have sex when she's in her cursed state. He doesn't seem to mind seeing her like this and she doesn't doubt that he would be more than willing if she offered, but whether it's the fear of her visions disrupting them or some lingering self-consciousness about her appearance, she finds that she's glad he doesn't push her.

Most nights, by the time she's tucked snuggly in his arms, she's exhausted and try as she might, she can't fight the sleep that clings to her and pulls her under. When visions wake her in the night, he pulls her closer and soothes her with quiet words until they pass and she can sleep again.

* * *

><p>Stars twinkle brightly overhead and she stands wrapped in his arms, her back against his chest as the Jolly Roger slices easily through the waves. By noon tomorrow they will reach port in her kingdom, he tells her. And when he leads her down to his cabin, enfolding her in his warm embrace, she falls asleep quickly despite the excitement and nervous apprehension that swirl in her belly at the thought of seeing her parents again.<p> 


	12. Chapter Eleven

The sun is bright and warm against Emma's face as they approach the shore of her kingdom. It feels like a lifetime since she's laid eyes upon the large seaside town, but it appears identical to the vague memory she holds in her mind. Her parents, the palace, _her home_, are only an hour's ride north. She has already packed up her meager belongings in a leather rucksack, slung over her shoulder with her bow and quiver. A new sword, sharp and lethal is sheathed and belted at her hips.

She stands at the rail on the starboard side, leaning over, stretching, as if a few extra inches will dock the ship sooner. Looking up to where Killian stands at the wheel, she grins broadly. _Almost home, _she mouths.

Gliding smoothly, the ship comes to a halt next to the docks and Killian motions for her to drop anchor while he tosses ropes overboard to secure the ship. The ease with which he clambers over the edge and drops to the dock still amazes her.

With the anchor dropped, she moves across the ship, intending to help Killian tie off, but when she peers over the rail, the ropes lay coiled, an untied mess on the sturdy wooden pier. She looks around frantically, searching the docks for a clue as to where he went, but finds nothing.

For the first time she notices that the harbour is suspiciously quiet, and dread turns in her stomach, a niggling sense of foreboding weighing on her mind. _Something is wrong_.

Wood creaks loudly behind her and she spins, seeking its source. She struggles to take in the scene before her, disbelief warring with anger and fear. Up on the helm Killian is on his knees, mouth gagged, wrists and ankles bound together, bowing his back, exposing his neck and chest to the cold press of a sword against his jugular. The man holding the sword is large and towering and dressed head to toe in black armor. Another man stands to Killian's right and beside him, smiling wickedly, is the Evil Queen.

"What's the matter princess?" Regina's words are cold, but Emma feels fire burn in her chest, eyes flickering to Killian. "Don't tell me you've actually gone and fallen for a pirate, you foolish girl."

Emma wants to protest, to deny it, but the words stick in her throat.

"Do you think that he loves you? That he will break your curse? That all will be right in your sunny little world?" Sharp, cutting words lash at her like a whip and she fights the urge to shrink back, to hide.

"Let him go," Emma pleads, "it's me you want."

Regina laughs and moves forward to stand in front of Killian. The large man in black lowers his sword and takes a step back. Regina brushes her knuckles against Killian's jaw and forcefully tilts his head from side to side, looking at him nonchalantly.

"You know, I really don't see the appeal," Regina says shaking her head and pursing her lips. "And why should I spare him? I'll get what I want either way."

Killian's jaw is clenched tightly, biting down on the gag and his eyes flash angrily. Emma wants to run to him, but her feet feel like lead weights, anchoring her in place.

It happens quickly, a sequence of events flashing by in what realistically, is probably only seconds, but to Emma it feels like an eternity as reality slows, the sound of her own pulse a deafening roar thrumming in her ears.

Regina's hand plunges into Killian's chest with a sickening squelch and when she withdraws it, his heart clutched in her fist, Killian crumples sideways to the deck.

Lightning fast, in the span of a heartbeat, Emma pulls the bow from her back and releases three arrows.

The two men in black stumble, falling dead to the ground instantly.

Regina sways, unsteady on her feet and looks down in shock at the glowing arrow protruding from her chest as blood leeches from the wound into the black satin of her dress. The Evil Queen's legs buckle and she stumbles to her knees on the deck. Emma draws another arrow, but before she can fire, Regina looks up at her, smiling foully through the blood that bubbles over her painted lips as she tightens her fist and crushes Killian's heart to dust between her fingers.

Regina collapses, the light fading quickly from her eyes and Emma drops the bow and arrow. The loud clatter as they hit the deck echoes against her eardrums, but she doesn't hear it – she can't. She hears nothing but sound of her scream as is rises up from somewhere deep within, spilling past her lips, wrapping around her heart and lungs until she can't breathe.

"Emma! Emma listen to me," his voice calls to her through the foggy haze of her tears. "It's alright, love. I'm right here, just breathe. It was just a vision, you'll be okay."

His voice is strong and reassuring and she latches onto it, clings to it, to him as the vision fades and reality rushes back to claim her – the feel of his arms wrapped around her, his hand in her hair, his chest firm and hairy and _real_ against her cheek, wet with her salty tears.

_It was just a vision. It didn't really happen. He's alive. He's right here. _She repeats the words to herself and slowly she calms, focusing on breathing, trying to sync her breaths with his deep, steady inhales and exhales. Her fingers tingle and her arms feel numb as the oxygen levels in her bloodstream level out and she finally stops shaking.

"We can't dock at the port by my kingdom tomorrow," she tells him with more confidence than she feels, lips pressed above his heart. It beats loudly, convincingly in his chest and she presses another kiss above it, tightening her arms around him.

Has she fallen for him? Regina's words haunt her. Does she love him? Does he love her? She doesn't know. She has no frame of reference for romantic love. The only love she's ever known is that of her parents, and it's a distant memory now, eroded by years of solitude.

She cares for him, she can admit that much. And the thought of him dying tomorrow, even if it means that the Evil Queen dies as well, is something that she cannot accept. He will not die because of her, not when she can prevent it. They will find another way to reach her kingdom, to get to her parents, even if it takes longer.

Killian is silent, and she realizes he must be waiting for her to continue.

"We have to find another way to get there," she says. "The port isn't safe."

He draws her chin up to meet his eyes and his thumb swipes at the tears on her cheek.

"What happened, love? What did you see?" he asks, concern clouding his features, his pupils wide, eyes nearly black in the dark room.

"You died," she says plainly, frowning. She doesn't mention that Regina also died. That's not important. All that matters is making sure they take a different path. That they alter fate. That he lives.

Several emotions flicker across his face, most of which she can't make out in the lack of light. At least that's what she tells herself, it's easier to pretend she doesn't see the shock and awe and gratitude and absolute adoration in the slight smile he gives her.

"We'll find another way." His answer is simple and when she tucks her face in the crook of his neck and mumbles "thank you" he seems content to leave it at that and doesn't press for more answers.

Minutes tick past in silence. Killian's eyes are closed and his breath is even and if it weren't for the soothing brush of his fingers against her spine, she would think he was sleeping. He stays awake with her for a nearly an hour, but eventually his fingers still, curling over her hip, holding her to him in slumber.

Emma lays awake; sleep eludes her and she doesn't bother to chase it. Instead she stays in his arms, tracing invisible patters through his chest hair until the sun rises. When dawn creeps through the gap under his door, spilling a fine ray of dusty light into the room; she slips from the bed quietly and quickly pulls on her clothes.

* * *

><p>Killian wakes unsettled, reaching for Emma, but the spot beside him is empty. Her scent and warmth still cling to the blankets so she can't have been gone for long.<p>

_You died_. Her words linger in the stale air of his cabin and he swings his legs over the edge of the bunk, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before reaching for his pants. He needs to go find her, make sure she's alright.

In the middle of the night he had woken to the tight clench of her fist above his scarred wrist, nails biting into the flesh of his forearm as she spoke against his chest, pleading. _Let him go. It's me you want._

Her body had been rigid against his, his attempts to soothe her futile. Her scream; deep and dark and poignant, her entire body shaking as she clawed at his chest, sobbing under the weight of her grief. Grief at the thought of him dying; he takes a moment to let the earth shattering magnitude of that revelation settle in his chest. _Bloody hell_. He shakes his head, he can't and he won't dwell on that. _Focus on the mission_, he tells himself, _get her home safe_.

Strapping on his brace, he finishes dressing quickly, snapping his hook into place and grabbing a map from his desk.

He finds Emma leaning against the rail, looking out over the water. The lingering sunrise casts shades of blush across the clouds looming on the horizon and she greets him with a sad smile when he moves to stand next her.

"Did I wake you?" she asks, apologetic.

He shrugs. "The bed felt empty without you next to me."

Emma raises an eyebrow and he wants to kick himself for daring to sound like some doe-eyed sap.

Pulling the map from his pocket, he unfolds it and points to a small island a fair distance west of her kingdoms port.

"It's a small fisherman's village. Hardly more than a handful of shacks, but I have several acquaintances there. We'll sail that way and anchor the ship at a distance. After nightfall, we'll take the small boat and row to the island."

"But..." Emma protests.

"It's alright love; these men won't question your face or your presence. I hold their loyalty and they know better than to cross me. A case of rum and a pouch of coins and they'll be falling over themselves to aid us."

She still looks uncertain but she nods and shifts closer to him, her elbow bumping against his.

They spend the morning gathering supplies, packing Emma's meager belongings, and sharpening their swords. By the time lunch rolls around, Emma is visibly sagging with exhaustion and he pulls her away from the map she studies, dragging her down next to him on the ground by the helm.

"Sleep," he orders tugging her to his side. She opens her mouth to argue but her words quickly shift into a yawn.

"I'll be right here, love," he assures her, "I'll wake you as soon as the sun sets."

She nods and slides down to pillow her head against his thigh. Fatigue pulls her into a deep sleep within minutes and he spends the afternoon and early evening combing his fingers through her hair as he keeps a close watch on the surrounding sea.

The sky slips into a dark starless dress with the arrival of night and Killian gently rouses Emma. She wakes quickly and he can feel her eyes following him as he moves about the ship lowering sails and securing lines. By the time he drops anchor, she has risen from the deck and has their belongings stowed away in the small boat.

"You ready?" he asks, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear and pulling her hood up to cover her bright mane.

"As I'll ever be," she admits, wrapping her fingers behind his neck and pulling him down for a brief, but heated kiss.

He's more than tempted to take her below and have her pressed naked beneath him, around him, warm and wet and oh so sweet one last time, but he forces himself to pull back and break the kiss. He seats her in the boat and lowers it into the water before climbing down to join her. A half moon shines through the clouds, lighting their way and he looks back over his shoulder at his ship before rowing forward toward the island.

Before long they reach a small dock and Killian hops from the boat, knotting it to the pier before offering his hand and helping Emma to dry land. Their supplies are few; two bags filled with belongings and food, their swords, Emma's bow, a case of rum and a pouch of coins.

He motions for Emma to trail him and she does so silently, following his footfalls as he makes his way up the dark path to the small cottage. She stands behind him, slightly off to the side, her head lowered when he knocks on the door.

"Who the buggering hell is knocking on my door at this hour?" Something clatters loudly inside the cottage and when a rough curse sounds from behind the closed door, Killian can't help but laugh.

The door swings open violently, banging against the wall and a tall wiry man pokes his head through, glaring at him. "This had better be good, Jones. I was this close," the man holds up his thumb and finger an inch apart, "to being buried balls deep in my wife..." he trails off when he notices Emma standing several feet back in the shadows.

"Apologies Jones, I'd no idea you were keeping female company these days." He nods at Emma. "Forgive my language miss."

Killian claps him on the shoulder. "Quite alright, Caddis. Takes more than a few dirty words to make this lass blush." Killian throws Emma a leering smile over his shoulder and she rolls her eyes, stepping closer.

"What do ya say, Cad? You gonna invite us in or should I take this rum over to Garret and see if he'd rather be of assistance?" Killian jests, holding up the case of rum that dangles from his hook.

Caddis nods immediately and steps back, waving them in.

It's been a couple years since Killian last visited, but the cottage is exactly as he remembers. The main room is dimly lit by several lanterns and if Caddis notices the unnatural pallor of Emma's face, he doesn't let his gaze linger or comment upon it.

They gather around the table, taking seats and Killian opens a bottle of rum, handing it to Caddis.

"So what brings the dastardly Captain Hook and his lady..." Caddis pauses, looking to Emma for a name.

"Etta," Emma supplies quickly with a smile.

Caddis continues, redirecting his question to Killian, "to my doorstep at such a late hour on a fine spring night?"

"_Etta_ and I are in need of transport to the mainland." Killian says, casting a sideways look at Emma and she shrugs, grinning back as if to say _What? It's a perfectly acceptable fake name_.

"What of your ship and your crew?" Caddis asks, confused.

"My ship is fine, I've left her anchored a short ways off shore. My crew on the other hand, well that's a long story. If you're interested, there's extra coin in it for you if you see to it that the Jolly is cared for in my absence. I would take her to the mainland, but alas she is far too recognizable and we would prefer to be _discreet_." Killian says, emphasizing discretion.

Caddis nods. "When do you wish to leave?"

"Ideally within the hour," Killian states, "the dark of night and caution are close friends after all."

A door creaks open and a tall redhead steps out.

"Killian Jones!" the woman admonishes with a poorly hidden grin. "First you draw my husband from our bed, and now you ask him to sneak you to the mainland under the cover of darkness? Have you no morals?"

"Very few Loretta, very few indeed," Killian answers with a grin, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I suppose I ought to have asked you first. We both know Caddis does nothing without your approval."

Caddis groans and Emma laughs.

"I guess I can allow it," Loretta picks up the open bottle of rum and takes a large swallow, "provided there's more where this came from."

Killian nods. "There's another case on my ship, feel free to help yourselves to that and any other perishables left on board, I'm not certain how long we'll be gone." He says _we_ because it raises fewer questions and while he considers Caddis and Loretta to be the closest thing he has left to friends, some things are safer kept secret.

Arrangements are made and payment is exchanged, and within the hour he and Emma are standing on the small fishing trawler as it sails through the dark water toward the nearby port. For Emma the night remains blissfully free from visions and she stands at Killian's side as they make the short trip from island to harbour.

When they arrive, Caddis slips from the trawler and tells them to wait while he makes his way through the small town to procure horses for their journey.

Caddis returns in mere minutes and leads them through the shadows of the sleeping town to the forest where two hardy bay geldings stand tacked and tied to a post. Killian embraces Caddis with a pat on the back and Emma nods, thanking him quietly before mounting.

"Safe travels Killian, Etta," Caddis wishes them well before turning in the night and disappearing back into the town.

Killian mounts and the horses set off into the forest at a brisk walk, picking their way carefully across the dark, uneven ground. The path is narrow and rocky and they're forced to ride single file as they squeeze between trees with nothing but dull moonlight to light their way. He lets Emma lead, and he follows, constantly scanning their surroundings, searching the dark forest for danger.

The path is overgrown in places and the going is slow, but it's far safer than travelling the main roads. The night passes in comfortable silence as they trek slowly east, back toward Emma's kingdom; the only sound that passes in the night is the steady fall of hoof beats and the occasional snort from the horses.

Dawn breaks, bright and warm and he can hardly keep his eyes open, the smooth rocking gait of the horse beneath him lulling him into a dangerously relaxed state.

"Emma, love," he calls to her, "let's take a break, rest for a bit."

Together they steer the horses from the path, up to higher ground where they hold a better vantage point and are well hidden behind a dense thicket of pines. Dismounting, they secure the horses to a tree and Killian settles quickly on the damp floor with his back against a fallen log, the exhaustion of riding for seven hours and not sleeping in twenty-four finally catching up to him.

Emma hunkers down next to him and hands him a chunk of bread that he gratefully accepts. He washes it down with water from the skin she passes his way. Her bow and quiver sit next to her, leaning against the thick log and she turns to him after placing the water skin back in her bag.

"Sleep for a few hours, Killian. I'll keep watch." Her eyes are bright and alert, and for a second his sleepy brain can't seem to figure out just how she's still wide awake when he's on the verge of collapsing, but then he remembers that she slept through the afternoon and part of the evening yesterday, and it all makes much more sense.

"Just need to rest my eyes for a moment, love," he insists, tilting his head back to rest against the moss covered bark at his back, "then we can be on our way."

His eyes close and he's asleep in seconds, completely unaware of the soft kiss she presses to his lips.

* * *

><p>Emma lets him sleep, satisfied to sit on the forest floor, simply listening to the horses snort contentedly and the cheery whistles resonating from a family of birds in a nearby tree. The ground is cool and damp but the long leather of her jacket keeps the moisture at bay. It's incredibly peaceful, sitting here like this, surrounded by the sounds and smells and sights of nature. The air is thick with the scent of dew and pine and soil and she revels in it, tilting her face skyward and breathing deep. The sight of Killian sleeping quietly next to her isn't half bad either and she spends more time than she cares to admit studying the lines and plains and angles of his face.<p>

A twig snaps nearby and she startles, reaching for her bow, but she releases her breath and immediately relaxes when through the trees she spies a doe and two small fawns. The mother watches her closely, holding eye contact for a moment before steering her babies away and retreating out of sight.

The forest remains quiet for the rest of the morning and Emma doesn't wake Killian until the sun hangs directly above them, its rays warming her face.

She slides into his lap, knees straddling his hips as she trails slow kisses across his chest, up his neck and along his jaw. When she finally settles her lips against his, he's wide awake, arms looped around her back, pressing her close.

He pulls away, nose bumping against hers as they breathe deep from the same small bubble of air, and after a moment he looks up at the sky, frowning. "Why did you let me sleep so long?"

_Because I like watching you sleep_, she thinks. "You were tired," she offers instead with a shrug as she slips from his lap and gathers her bow.

He seems irritated, his mood dark and she's not sure what she did wrong so she focuses on gathering their belongings and tightening the cinches, securing the saddles on both geldings.

She's already mounted when he approaches her, looking apologetic.

"Sorry, love." His hand rests on her thigh, thumb stroking softly. "I appreciate you letting me sleep, but I don't want to delay your return any longer than necessary."

"And I appreciate your slightly skewed sense of honour, but seeing as I was the one who neglected to wake you, technically I was delaying my own return, and the only thing you should have to apologize for is ending that kiss so abruptly."

A smile blooms on his face and instantly the mood lightens.

"Too right, lass." Killian raises an eyebrow. "Note to self; when you kiss the princess, continue to do so until she either pushes you away or you fall unconscious from oxygen deprivation."

Emma swats at him playfully and he catches her hand easily, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to each knuckle before placing it against her thigh with a mollifying pat.

_Idiot_. The man is a stupid, irritatingly charming, ridiculously handsome, idiot.

Killian mounts his horse and when they set off, he fixes her with a grin that makes her choke on her words and sends her heart stuttering in an erratic rhythm against her ribcage.


	13. Chapter Twelve

A/N: We're getting so close to the reunion!

* * *

><p>They spend the day traveling companionably through the forest, breaking briefly alongside a small creek to refill their water skins and allow the horses to drink before continuing on their way.<p>

The forest thickens as they advance south. Spring is further along here, buds in full bloom, leaves beginning to fill the canopy, blotting out the sunlight and casting flickering shadows upon the ground below.

Emma is filled with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, the familiar scenery bringing back childhood memories of long rides through the forest, laughing with her father over her pony's antics.

She's unbelievably anxious over the pending reunion. It's been so long since she's seen her parents that she honestly doesn't know what to expect. The whole ordeal fills her with nagging uncertainty. She doesn't know how to be a princess anymore; in truth, she doesn't know if she wants to be. Even if somehow her curse is broken, what then?

_But there's more to it than just that, isn't there?_ It's not just fear of the unknown that rests heavy, like a lead weight dangling from her heart.

_Your parents; they knew where you were being held. For years. Why didn't they try harder to rescue you? If I pirate could do it, why couldn't they?_ The thought rises quickly, violently, and try as she might, she can't suppress it. It lodges thick in her throat and swallowing does nothing to displace it.

Fear dissolves, anger and bitter disappointment rushing in to take its place.

Her horse tenses beneath her and she realizes her fingers are clenched so tightly upon the reins that her knuckles have gone white. Emma breathes deeply to settle her thoughts, brushing her fingers along the strong neck of the gelding she rides in an apologetic pat.

This is easy; riding a horse, consorting with a pirate, this she can do. There's little in the way of expectations when it comes to her time spent with Killian Jones. He seems perfectly content to accept both her silence and her complete and utter lack of tact. And as far as feelings go, he appears just as inclined as she is to push them down; burry them deep and dark where there's not enough light to analyze them. _Fine by her_.

The path widens as the light wanes and Killian urges his horse forward to ride side by side with her. The air is thick with moisture and thunder rumbles in the distance.

"Perhaps we should find shelter for the night, love?" he suggests. "Start fresh in the morning, aye?"

The sky darkens further and thunder cascades through the heavens again, louder this time. A bright flash of lightning streaks across the sky and she agrees, searching the gloomy forest for a suitable location to make camp.

When they crest the next hill she spots a large overhang of rocks. It's not much, but it should keep them dry enough.

"Over there." She points and Killian nods, following her from the path.

It starts to rain as they un-tack the horses, securing them sheltered by a thicket of sturdy cedar trees, before stacking their belongings under the overhang.

Killian pulls a weatherproof length of sailcloth from his pack and ties it in place to block the wind and rain.

The storm brings with it damp cold air but they dare not light a fire for fear of drawing unwanted attention. Emma pulls up her hood and settles in next to Killian, pulling a cloak out of her bag to cover their legs.

They chat, discussing topics of little consequence while they eat. Afterwards, Killian urges her to sleep, but she can't; the thought of finally seeing her parents again tomorrow banishes all hope of slumber and she tells him as much.

He seems to regard her thoughtfully for a moment, studying her cursed face in the dark of their makeshift shelter. She can barely make out his features, but she knows that he can probably see her just fine; she's always found it strange how her curse lights her face, pale and glowing as if she sits eternally under a full moon that shines only for her.

After a moment Killian pulls her closer, tilting his head to meet her lips in a soft kiss. It's gentle and sweet and far too tender, so she climbs into his lap and grips his lapels in her fists, pulling him to her forcefully.

She doesn't want slow and soft. She wants hard and fast. She already has enough thoughts and fears and worries swirling in her mind, she doesn't need more. She wants to be consumed by him, by their pleasure, allowing it to chase away all other thoughts until she's exhausted and sated and her mind is finally, blissfully, empty.

He meets her hard and unyielding, lips bruising, teeth nipping, driving away any chill she feels in the cold wet air. Their hands move recklessly, grabbing, twisting, pulling. Rocking her hips, she grinds against him, swallowing the delicious growl he releases against her tongue. She circles her fingers round the back of his neck and scratches her nails against his scalp, tugging at his hair until his chin rises, exposing the flesh of his throat to her greedy lips.

"Lose the pants, love," he commands, pushing her back so he can tear at his own laces.

Emma stands under the rocky overhang and tugs her breeches downward, forgetting in her haste to remove her boots. The fabric tangles around her knees and frustration sets in as she struggles to toe off her boots. She gives up when she hears Killian laugh, dark and dangerous.

"No matter lass, you've bared the important bits."

He's standing behind her, breath hot against her ear and suddenly he's flipping her long leather jacket out of the way and is pressed to her back, hand wrapping around her front to delve between her legs. She can feel his erection hot and heavy, straining between her thighs and she presses back into him, spreading her legs as best she can with her breeches still around her knees.

She's wet and beyond ready, and Killian runs his tongue along the shell of her ear, groaning when his fingers slide easily against her flesh.

"Someone's awfully worked up." He nips at her neck. "Is this what happens when I go mere days without properly bedding you, darling?" His voice is thick with sin and she squirms against his hand and cock, frantic to have him buried deep between her legs.

"Yes," she grinds through clenched teeth, impatient.

Killian continues to slide against her teasingly; peppering light kisses long her shoulder where he's yanked her clothing back to reveal pale flesh.

Rain falls loudly through the trees and when thunder rumbles and lightning flashes, casting their shadows against the rock wall in a brief but intimate painting, she decides she's had enough of his torturous touches. She bends slightly, reaching down between her legs to push his hand away, grabbing his length and positioning it at her entrance. He receives her message, loud and clear.

"Killian," she keens when he finally presses into her, all at once with enough force that she has to brace her hands against the cold rock to remain upright.

He wraps his fist in her hair, tugging her head back and she turns her face to meet his hungry lips as he surges against her, holding her tight with his hooked arm across her stomach.

Her release comes, fast and earth shattering, crashing over her powerfully, as violent as the storm raging outside their small shelter, and the only thing that keeps her from falling to the ground is Killian's strong arm wrapped around her waist.

His hand releases her hair and moves to her hip. Fingers bruise her flesh and his teeth bite down hard on her shoulder as he ruts frantically against her. She whimpers when he pulls from her depths, leaving her empty and aching as his release spills hot against her inner thighs.

She's fairly certain that it's her holding him upright this time as he sags heavily against her back. Her knees are weak when he presses a kiss to her shoulder blade and straightens.

Killian pulls a cloth from his pack to gently wipe her clean. He cleans himself off as well and she pulls up her breeches while he re-laces his own. It's a poor attempt at washing up, but it's not as if they have a tub or wash basin handy here in the middle of the enchanted forest.

Settling heavily on the cool earth, he rests his back against the wall and offers his hand. Emma takes it and he pulls her down next to him, tucking her beneath his arm with his hook resting against her hip.

She unsuccessfully fights a yawn and he tugs her closer against his chest.

"Think you might be able to sleep now, love?" He chides and if she weren't so damn tired she'd punch him for his mocking tone.

"Thank you," she mutters, indignant, but there's nowhere near enough venom in her tone to sound even remotely annoyed because she's already curling into his side as exhaustion tugs at her eyelids.

As sleep pulls her under, it strikes her as slightly hilarious that she apparently just thanked him for sex. There's so much more she wants –_needs-_ to thank him for, but the how of it escapes her, so she simply settles for pressing her hand to his chest, coarse hair and the steady beat of his heart against her palm as she slips into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Emma falls quickly into an easy slumber against his shoulder and he covers her with the cloak, pulling it high, tucking it over her shoulder and beneath her chin. The cloth soiled by his release gets rolled up and tucked away in his bag and he pulls his flask from his jacket, popping the cork and allowing the rum to trickle down his throat and warm his belly.<p>

The rain continues to fall in torrents, the wind arriving in heavy gusts as thunder booms loud enough to shake the very ground they sit upon. He worries for a moment that it might wake Emma, but she remains sleeping, dead to the world. Their quick, mostly clothed fuck (because really, what else can you call it?) seems to have chased away her demons long enough to allow slumber to take hold.

Oh and what a fuck it was - she's breathtaking, _a bloody revelation_, giving as good as she gets. Killian shakes his head and swallows another mouthful of rum.

She certainly doesn't seem to be in a hurry to halt their transgressions and he can't help but wonder if she'll still be so willing at home in her palace. The thought of taking her up against a wall in a dark corner, while guards and servants mill about is enough to have him at half-mast.

He assumes he'll be sticking around for a short while, Emma did promise that she would convince her parents to provide him with information on the dark one and he's not entirely sure how long that will take.

Secretly, selfishly, he hopes that it takes a while. He's not ready to part ways with her just yet, and he tells himself it's only because he's quite fond of taking his pleasure between her silky thighs. She may be a princess, but if there's one thing he's learned these past two weeks, it's that she's bloody insatiable and seems to enjoy his body as much as he does hers.

When she shifts against his side and mumbles his name in her sleep, slipping her hand under his shirt to rest above his heart, he's forced to admit that he will miss this too; the way she molds so perfectly against his side in slumber. He sleeps unbelievably well with her in his arms, better than he has in centuries, and he's fairly certain insomnia will return with swift vengeance when she's no longer a constant presence in his bed.

It seems that she is no stranger to sleeplessness either and he can hardly fault her for it. The things she has seen, he knows only a small portion of them, and they alone would be enough to keep the most hardened of warriors awake night after night.

He knows though, that it was not fear of her visions keeping her from rest this night. It was something else entirely. He can tell she's nervous about being reunited with her parents. Nigh on ten years is a long time to be separated from everything and everyone that you hold dear. But he suspects there's more to it than that. He's seen fear and horror and anxiety in her eyes; he knows how they affect her posture, but this look, this is different.

He has conjecture, several theories, but all require clarity on her part that he knows will not be forthcoming. She's open in many ways, and he's become quite adept at reading her, but still there is much that she hides, carefully concealed and locked away. He'd be a fool to ask for the key.

Sighing, he corks his rum. Best not drink too much; he needs to stay alert while she sleeps. In a few hours he'll wake her so that he can rest his eyes.

The storm has passed when he rouses her. They check on the horses quickly before returning to their shelter. She pulls him down so that his head rests upon her lap and he goes willingly.

He's spent the last several hours chasing futile thoughts in circles round his brain, slowly losing ground as exhaustion clings to his consciousness, so when she absent-mindedly combs her fingers through his hair, he admits defeat and falls into a fitful slumber.

* * *

><p>Morning dawns, bright and mild, the dew covered forest glistening in the strong sun. The air is heavy still, thick with lingering moisture from the storm and Emma breathes it in greedily. Dirt and pine, earthy and sweet, assault her senses, swirling with leather and horse and something uniquely Killian.<p>

His head is still pillowed in her lap and she loathes to wake him, wishing they could remain here a while longer, just the two of them alone in the tranquil quiet of the forest. It would be so easy: to avoid reality for another day, to wrap herself in his arms and lose herself in his kisses. But she knows they can't, she's delayed long enough as it is. It's time for the lost princess to return home.

During the night he'd shifted restlessly at first, tossing and turning for some time before finally settling with his face turned toward her. His features are soft; relaxed as she runs her fingers through his hair, over his ear, and down his jaw. He stirs slightly, pressing his nose to her lower stomach, nuzzling against her intimately and she's forced to laugh to fight the strangled sob that rises unbidden to her lips.

She soothes her hand over his shoulder and arm a little more forcefully, squeezing his bicep though the leather of his long coat, and he blinks up at her sleepily, blue eyes bright and smiling.

"Morning already, love?" his voice is husky, and she can feel the heat of it through the fabric of her shirt.

He turns his head again, pressing a kiss against the cloth at the apex of her thighs and her answer crumbles on her tongue.

He looks up at her with that accursed grin, knowing just how easily he affects her and she shakes her head. Damn him. Damn his uncanny perception. Damn his impossibly blue eyes. Damn him for making her want to rip his clothes off, for making her wish she could spend an eternity naked beneath him, just to forget about everything but the feel of him inside her. _Just damn him_.

Glaring at him, she pushes against his shoulder, forcing him to either sit up or land in the dirt. "Come on pirate, let's get packed up."

She stands and Killian rises gracefully next to her.

"As you wish, milady," he says, bowing his head and dipping to one knee before her.

"No," she protests. "No way in hell! None of that royalty shit. I'm going to be up to my eyeballs in that crap when we get back to the palace. Can you just-" he's still kneeling so she yanks him upright by the elbow, "Killian, just treat me like you always have, okay?" It's a quiet plea.

She holds no illusions. As soon as she gets home, she's going to be swept up in a whirlwind of hugs and tears and questions and emotions and silk and lace and gold and jewels. And _fuck_, it's going to be overwhelming and she's going to be surrounded by so many people, an outsider in her own home. Her parents are essentially strangers to her now, and she to them. She's not the same little girl they used to know. Not anymore.

Killian's hand slips into hers, squeezing gently and it hits her: he's her only friend. He's the only person in this large and lonely world that knows her, really knows her. Emma squeezes back, avoiding eye contact, before dropping his hand and moving to pack up their things.

Denying the inevitable is almost as exhausting as facing it, so she decides to stop stalling and just get on with it.

* * *

><p>They pause momentarily along the path, allowing the horses to graze on delicate spring grass.<p>

Emma digs through her bag, trying to locate the last of their food, but her attempts are hindered by the breathless laughs racking her body.

Killian does a mock impression of a bumbling prince, inspired by the image of an endless line of suitors she predicts her parents will have lined up for her within the week. She tells him how much she dreads the thought of being forced to sit through meal after meal with strange men, hair pulled tight, corset pulled tighter.

And bless him, because for a moment, he makes her laugh hard enough to forget the anxiety that has been hovering, like an insistent cloud above her head for days.

She finally locates an orange and is about to toss it to him when suddenly and without warning, they're being pulled from their horses and surrounded by men.

Emma connects hard with the ground, stars swimming before her eyes, her skull and shoulder aching from the impact. Mud squishes between her fingers, the ground still wet and sloppy from last night's rain, as she pushes to her knees. She stills instantly when she feels the point of a sword at her chest.

Killian struggles valiantly, but four men pin him down and he doesn't even have time to draw his cutlass before he's captured motionless with sharp metal biting at his throat.

Emma instantly recognizes her family's crest and scans the faces of the guards, hoping to find someone she recognizes. The man pressing his blade to Killian's neck is older and greyer than she recalls, but she knows him all the same.

"Baynard," she says his name firmly and his head snaps up. He looks at her clearly confused for a moment before recognition slowly dawns on his face.

"Princess?" he asks, studying her closely. "Princess Emma?" his voice is soft, disbelieving, but his blade doesn't move from Killian's throat. Something flashes in his eyes and if anything he presses the sword tighter.

"It's me," she confirms and almost instantly the sword at her chest is withdrawn and the guard holding it steps back apologetically.

Standing, she steps forward, green eyes locking with blue. Blood trickles down Killian's neck and she wants to rush toward him, ensure he's okay, but she holds steady, barely moving. She's not entirely sure that Baynard won't just slit Killian's throat and be done with it.

"Release him," she commands, her voice is calm even though she feels anything but.

Baynard looks at her uncertainly. "But princess, he's a pirate-"

Emma cuts him off with a menacing glare. "He is also my rescuer and he has treated me with nothing but kindness. You should be showing him gratitude, not threatening to cut his throat."

Baynard hesitates, his sword loosening fractionally, but still in place.

"Immediately!" she demands loudly, her voice dangerous, sinister even to her own ears.

Her tone has the desired effect and Baynard steps back, lowering his sword. She moves to dash forward, but Baynard holds up a hand to halt her.

"Hand me your weapons," he says to Killian, who meets her eyes uncertainly.

Emma nods to let him know that it's okay and Killian unbuckles his sword belt, handing it to Baynard.

"The hook too," Baynard requests and Killian twists it off, looking displeased.

Emma knows that Killian has several other small knives and daggers hidden within the lining of his jacket, but Baynard does not and the guard seems satisfied once Killian is no longer in possession of his sword and hook.

When Baynard sheaths his sword, Emma steps forward and offers Killian her hand, helping him up, but resisting the urge to run her hands over his entire body in a thorough check for injuries.

"You okay?" she questions quietly.

There's a nasty cut above his eyebrow and his cheek is darkening, bruised and swollen. Killian rubs at his throat, wiping at the thin line of blood that trickles down into his chest hair.

"I'll survive, thank you, love."

He looks at her intently, frowning at the mud that stains her knees and shoulder and likely a good portion of her hair, silently communicating his own concern and she smiles at him weakly, answering his unspoken question. _A little dirty, but I'm okay._

Content that he's not seriously injured she gives his hand one last squeeze before dropping it. Steeling herself and carefully schooling her features, wanting to appear confident, she turns to face Baynard and the other guards. They're watching her curiously, eyes flicking between her and Killian.

"Now," she says as she gathers her fallen bow from the ground, "if you would be so kind as to escort us to my parents. I imagine they'd like to see me." Her words are clear, spoken with a confidence that belies the anxiety coursing through her veins.

A guard leads forth the two bay geldings and Emma brushes the dirt from her breeches as best she can before taking the reins and remounting. The guard balks slightly when Killian moves to mount the other horse and Emma fixes him with a glare that clearly states, _he's riding_, and leaves no room for argument.

* * *

><p>When they finally ride over the bridge and through the grand gates, past the tall elaborate stone walls that encompass the palace grounds, Emma reaches for Killian's hand. The contact is brief, fleeting, but he squeezes her fingers tightly, in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture.<p>

She throws him a quick, shaky smile before releasing his hand and steeling her nerves. He watches her slip back behind the carefully crafted facade of poise and confidence, amazed by how easily she pretends to be fine.

It's a good act. _Really good_. Most people would never see through it. But he does.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

A/N: It's reunion time!

* * *

><p>The castle looms before her, immense and towering, and somehow, it's far larger than she remembers, even though she is much taller now than she was the last time she set foot within these walls.<p>

Baynard dismounts, as does Killian, so she follows their lead and slides from her horse as well. Their horses are quickly whisked away to the stables and Baynard motions for them to follow him into the castle.

The greying guard guides them down the main hall and through the large ballroom. It's ridiculously surreal, being here again, and Emma takes in the elaborate walls and ceilings, hung with silks and curtains and sparkling chandeliers. It's overwhelming, and she's struck again by how small and insignificant this place makes her feel.

The entire atmosphere of the castle has changed drastically. It's different than she remembers; darker, gloomier than it used to be. Bright golds and blues are dulled, replaced by sombre silver-grey and navy.

It's all too much to process, so she focuses on Killian instead, watching how he walks with a slight limp that wasn't present this morning. The bruise on his cheek has darkened and spread to encompass his eye, but at least the cuts on his forehead and neck have clotted and are no longer bleeding.

Baynard leads them into an empty sitting room.

"If you'll wait here, your highness," he bows gracefully, "I'll locate your parents and bring them to you."

The guard casts a wary look at Killian, seemingly reluctant to leave her alone in the company of a pirate, but Emma dismisses him with a smile. "Thank you, Baynard."

The doors close behind him and her shoulders sag instantly as she releases a heavy sigh. There are several settees in the room, upholstered in extravagant brocade, but her clothes are a mess, so she remains standing.

She makes eye contact with Killian and strangely enough he looks like he feels more at home here than she does. This doesn't feel like her home. She feels like a visitor here. Killian's ship felt more like a home than she thinks this castle ever will.

She stands fiddling with the hem of her shirt, picking at the dirty fabric, wanting to say something to fill the unbearable silence that descends on the room while they wait.

It's a ridiculous thought, but she feels embarrassed to be seen in such muddied attire, as if she should be making some sort of great first impression, as if it's not her parents she's about see, as if she's not a princess, their daughter, but some lowly peasant girl about to meet royalty for the first time.

She thinks briefly about changing her clothes, she has spares in her pack after all, but she has no clue how long it will take for Baynard to return with her parents and she doubts they'd be pleased if they walked in on her striping bare and changing next to a pirate. The mental picture she conjures is so absurdly hilarious that she snorts in unladylike laughter.

Killian raises an eyebrow, grinning at her, looking rogue and still incredibly handsome despite being bruised and caked in drying blood and dirt. It does wonders to lighten the heavy atmosphere. She returns his smile and tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket to keep from fidgeting, just barely resisting the urge to rock back and forth on her heels like an impatient child.

Standing in the middle of the large room feels a lot like they're awaiting trial and she has no idea how Killian manages to look so at ease. Her fingers twitch inside her pocket and she thinks how easy it would be to just reach out and lace her fingers with his, to let his warm hand anchor her, to let the calloused brush of his fingers ease the storm brewing in her stomach.

The pull she feels toward him is strong and she's about to reach for his hand when the large doors behind them creak open. Emma spins quickly, her breath frozen in her lungs.

Her mother and father step into the room and Baynard closes the door, leaving them to reunite in private.

Her father looks almost exactly the same as she remembers; grey has crept into the hair at the temples and the lines on his face have deepened, but other than that, it's almost as if no time has passed.

Her mother has changed more; her hair is still black as coal, but it's cropped short now, close to her head. Her fair face is fuller too, and frown lines pull at her lips, the skin around her eyes, dark and tired.

Emma stares at them and they stare back at her. Her father looks as if his heart is breaking and his eyes fill with tears as he looks back and forth between wife and daughter, his jaw slack, mouth open in disbelief.

And her mother, _oh god_, her mother. Emma's breath hitches and Snow steps forward, looking her over quickly, eyes flickering to her face, a bittersweet smile forming on her lips as she cups Emma's cheeks in her palms and whispers her name, broken and fierce.

"_Oh, Emma_."

Emma watches her mother's face crumple, eyes closed tight as tears stream down her face, and suddenly she's being pulled into a crushing hug, wrapped so tightly in her mother's arms that she can't breathe, but that's okay, because finally, after so many long, lonely years, she's back in her mother's warm embrace and the fact that she can't breathe doesn't even concern her right now, because her eyes are burning and her heart is swelling and her feet are numb and she's _home_.

"You're home-" Snow murmurs against her ear, and then her father is joining the embrace, his strong arms wrapping around her, hand cupping the back of her head as he presses a kiss to her hair, and Emma just stands there, wrapped in more love and affection than she knows what to do with, blinking back tears and searching for something, anything to say.

Her mother's arms loosen fractionally and Emma draws in a shuddering breath.

"So," Emma starts, "it's been a while." The words sound ridiculous even to her own ears, so she's not surprised when a light, bubbly, slightly hysterical laugh rises from her mother's chest.

Her father chuckles too and they both pull back to look at her again.

"Yeah," David shakes his head in disbelief, "I suppose it has been."

Snow holds both of her hands and looks her over again. "Gods Emma, you're all grown up."

Emma doesn't know what to say to that so she just smiles weakly and looks back and forth between her parents as they exchange a look.

"David, we missed _so much,_" Snow says despairingly and David nods knowingly.

It's not hard for Emma to imagine that they've had these thoughts before, she certainly has. Anger and despair and sadness and grief for the life she was cheated out of, for everything she didn't get to experience.

No part of it is fair, but she's come to accept it for what it is, and she's known for many years now, that life is anything but fair. You play the hand you're dealt, and yeah, sometimes it sucks, but it's all you've got, so you can choose to lay down and give up, or you can stand tall and make the best of a shitty situation.

Silence settles over the room and Emma feels the need to break it so she coughs and looks over to where Killian is standing patiently, smiling while he watches her interact with her parents.

Her parents follow her gaze and for the first time, seem to notice that there is another presence in the room.

"Mom, Dad," the words feel foreign on her tongue, but she pushes them out and continues, "this is Killian Jones, he's uh – well, he's the man who rescued me." Emma looks from Killian to her parents, trying to judge their reactions.

Killian grins broadly at her, and for one heart stopping moment, Emma fears he's going to say something lewd and entirely inappropriate, but he just turns to her parents and bows respectfully.

"Milady, my liege," he greets them in proper fashion, and it doesn't escape Emma that he spoke to her mother first. _Smart man_.

Gratitude already shines in her father's eyes and Emma knows he will be easily won over; he'll play the overprotective father card, but his resolve will be fleeting. Her mother on the other hand, won't be so easily convinced. Even now she's regarding Killian with scepticism, wary and full of mistrust.

David offers his hand, and when Killian takes it, David claps him heavily on the back.

"Thank you, Jones, for bringing our daughter home."

"Think nothing of it your highness. It was my pleasure to see Emma safely home and reunited with her family." Nothing in Killian's tone even remotely suggests a double entendre, but Emma knows him well enough to recognize that his choice of words were deliberate. _His pleasure indeed._

Snow chooses that moment to speak up. "I realize I'm being rather blunt, but what exactly happened to you two? Why are you and my daughter covered in mud?"

Emma doesn't manage to stifle her laugh and Killian's face breaks into another grin. They really do look quite ridiculous.

"I'm afraid your guards were perhaps a tad overzealous when they apprehended us in the forest on our way here, milady. Tackled us right to the ground from our horses," Killian states dramatically.

Snow looks appalled and Killian quickly adds, "Of course they had no idea it was the princess they were attacking and there was a bit of a scuffle before your daughter recognized the one called Baynard and managed to quite admirably clarify the situation. Simple misunderstanding." Killian waves it off as if he hadn't been seconds away from having his throat slit.

Emma grabs Snow's hand, bothered by the way her mother still glares silently at Killian as if he's somehow at fault. _Pirate_: the word lingers, unspoken in the air.

"It's okay mom, no harm done," she insists, "a bath and some clean clothes and I'll be right as rain."

Snow seems to soften at her words and encircles her in another quick but crushing hug. "You both must be hungry. You're hungry aren't you?"

Emma stammers, not sure she could even eat right now, but thankfully Killian steps in and answers for her. "I'd love some food," he states, "and I'm sure Emma would too. Wouldn't you, love?"

Nodding, Emma hopes her parents don't find it strange that Killian calls her love. If they notice, or think anything of it, it doesn't show on their faces.

Her mother seems anxious about something and she turns, speaking quickly. "David, perhaps you could run to the kitchens, have them put on lunch a little early?"

David nods and shakes Killian's hand again before drawing Emma close and placing a tender kiss to her forehead. "I've missed you peanut," he tells her in a quiet voice and suddenly she's swallowing hard and blinking back tears, feeling like that little girl from so long ago.

Her father leaves and her mother waves in a couple maids.

"Emma sweetie, this is Candace," Snow gestures to the young auburn-haired maid. "She will take you up to your room and draw a bath for you."

Snow turns to the other maid, an older woman with greying strawberry-blonde curls. "Marietta, can you please escort Mr. Jones to a spare room, he is our guest today; see to it that he is provided with whatever he requires."

Killian tosses a heartening grin her way before he is pulled from the room by the older woman and Emma immediately feels the loss. His presence has had a tremendous calming effect on her nerves this last while, and now that he's gone, even if it's only temporary, she itches to follow him.

Her mother turns back to her and takes her hands. "I'll see you soon for lunch, okay?"

Emma nods and Candace holds out her hand. The girl is young, probably only sixteen or seventeen, but she's sweet and soft spoken as she leads Emma up the winding stairwell to the tower where her bedroom used to be.

_Where her bedroom apparently still is._

When Candace holds the door open for her, Emma gasps. Everything is exactly as she remembers it, right down to the plush sage-green blankets on her bed and the stuffed golden horse on her pillow.

"You're mother refused to change a thing," Candace tells her. "She always insisted that you would be back some day and now you are."

Tears pool in her eyes and Emma wipes them away with the back of her hand.

"Is everything alright, princess?" Candace asks.

"It's perfect, thank you," she replies, smiling kindly at the young maid.

The door opens again and several maids enter, carrying steaming buckets of water. The tub is filled quickly and soon it's just her and Candace alone in the room once more.

"Shall I take your soiled clothes and leave you to bathe, princess?"

"Call me Emma," she requests, "and yes please, but see to it that they are returned to me when they are clean, that jacket and those boots mean a lot to me."

Pulling her bag and her bow and quiver from her back, she rests them against the closest wall before stepping out of the boots. She fingers the soft caramel leather of the coat as Candace helps slide it from her shoulders. Its craftsmanship is exquisite and she remembers Edith, the sweet, sprightly old woman that crafted it, now dead at the hand of the evil queen. _Because of you_, her brain supplies cruelly.

Emma steps behind the curtain that surrounds to the tub to remove the rest of her clothing. There are finger marks on her hip and love bites on her shoulder and thighs and she doesn't want the girl asking questions about their origins.

She shoves the clothes across the floor to the other side of the curtain and Candace immediately picks them up.

"I will return shortly prin – Emma," Candace corrects, "with fresh clothes for you."

"Thank you, Candace."

The door closes and Emma steps into the tub, sinking down into the warm water with a sigh. She wishes Killian was here with her, his hairy chest against her back, his thighs cradling hers in the water. It's strange being away from him. Logically she knows he's only on the other side of the castle and that she'll see him again within the hour, but she's grown so used to his almost constant presence that now his absence is a shock to her system.

It's tempting to lounge in the sweet smelling water, but the sooner she's clean and dressed, the sooner she can see Killian and her parents again, so she bathes quickly, scrubbing the mud from her face and hair.

Candace returns and places a slip and some undergarments on a stool next to the tub. Towels are already hanging from the wall so she wraps her hair up in one before grabbing another to dry her body. The undergarments are simple cotton and she pulls them on quickly before sliding into the long sleeved, floor length dark gold slip. The material is soft and silky and surprisingly comfortable.

Emma steps out from behind the curtain and Candace beams. "I knew that colour would look great on you!" she says, holding up another layer of the dress. It's made of finely woven black, green, and navy lace and she helps Emma slip into it before lacing up the front of the corset.

It's an odd feeling, being dressed by someone else after so long on her own, but she lifts her arms and turns when instructed and soon Candace is sliding dark green suede slippers onto her feet. The towel is pulled from her head, and Emma is directed to a chair in front of the large mirror.

The dress really is beautiful; elegant and extravagantly detailed, but she's surprised to find that it doesn't hinder her movements or breathing at all.

"It's lovely, Candace, thank you," she says, meeting her maids eyes in the mirror. The girl blushes, but continues to run a brush through Emma's hair.

Candace works quickly with nimble fingers, twisting and pulling until Emma's long locks are twined into a braid that circles her head. The effect is like nothing she's ever seen before and it appears almost as if she's wearing a crown.

Satisfied with her work, Candace offers her hand. "Come Emma, lunch will be ready soon."

They pad softly down the stairs and into the dining hall. Her parents aren't there yet, but Candace seats her at the table and tells her that they should arrive shortly, before disappearing into the kitchens and leaving Emma alone in the large room.

The table is set for five and Emma briefly wonders who the fifth party will be. Her thoughts are disrupted when Killian is all but pushed into the hall by the aging maid.

She does a double take when she sees what he's wearing. He's dressed in sinfully tight brown breeches and tall black leather riding boots. He wears a navy and gold brocade waistcoat with an ivory blouse beneath it (unbuttoned enough to reveal his chest, _of course_) and over top is a deep olive green jacket with black stitching and gold buttons. His chain and charms still dangle around his neck and she wonders how much he had to pout to avoid parting with those. His brace is still empty, just barely showing past the end of his sleeve and she makes a mental note to find out what happened to his hook.

His face is bruised and the cuts are still visible, but the blood and grime are gone from his skin. He's dressed like fucking royalty and _goddamn_ it looks good on him. She also doesn't fail to notice that their outfits share a similar colour palate. She wonders if she should blame Candace or Marietta for that – likely both.

Marietta drags Killian toward the table, smacking him upside the head when a colourful curse spills past his gritted teeth. Emma can't quite make out what he said, but knows he more than likely deserved the reprimand.

He is pressed into the chair on her left, and when Marietta finally leaves, Killian leans toward her, his lips dangerously close to her ear. "Bloody hells Emma, do maids always make it their mission to violate every ounce of your personal space when they dress you? I've been pinched and plucked and prodded in places that blasted woman has no business touching!"

He sounds terribly affronted and she laughs at him because the look on his face is absolutely priceless and it would take far too much effort not to.

"Not usually," she answers, "but I mean, come on, look at you, how could she possibly resist?"

Her words feed his ego, and his chest practically puffs out in pride.

"Ah finally, she admits it! See now, love? I always knew you found me devilishly handsome."

Emma rolls her eyes and swats at his shoulder as they share a smile.

This playful banter is exactly what she needs. It's light and refreshing and it makes her forget for a moment that they're about to sit down to a meal with parents that she hasn't dined with since she was a child.

Killian catches her hand and turns it so her palm faces upwards, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her skin, lips brushing teasingly as he looks into her eyes.

She bites her lip and presses her thighs together against the feelings he stirs with such a simple touch.

"You look positively ravishing, darling." He lowers her hand to his thigh and she slides it higher.

His eyes are dark. They're playing with fire here; she knows it, he knows it, but the dining hall is still empty so she squeezes him once through the fabric of his breeches before lifting her hands and folding them innocently atop the table.

"Bloody fucking minx you are love." His voice is thick with arousal and she wants so badly to kiss him, but she won't risk it.

Thankfully her father walks in and she's distracted from her thoughts of jumping Killian right here on the large dining table.

David looks serious as he walks over and crouches down next to her.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"There's something we need to tell you Emma, and your mother didn't want to risk upsetting you on your first day back home, but it's not exactly something that can be kept hidden and we don't want to keep any secrets from you, so I'm just going to come right out and tell you..." David pauses hesitantly.

"Tell me what?" she asks, tense and worried. What could be so serious that they seek to inform her in such a cautious manner before dining? Emma's mind instantly jumps to several horrible conclusions and Killian's hand lands discretely on her knee beneath the table cloth. He squeezes gently and she meets his eyes for a split second before following his gaze over to the doorway where her mother now stands.

"That you have a little sister, Emma," her mother says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

A small chocolate-haired girl peaks out from behind her mother with a huge smile and comes barrelling into the dining hall. The girl, _her sister_ Emma thinks bewildered, collides with David and he scoops her up to sit on his knee.

"Emma, this is Thalia," her father introduces the bubbly little girl. Thalia is the spitting image of her mother, but clearly inherited her father's blue eyes.

Emma sits frozen for a moment, attempting to process the fact that she's no longer an only child, that her parents had another baby after their only daughter was stolen away, that they didn't know if they would ever see her again so they birthed another heir in her stead. She feels like she's been replaced and it hurts like hell, but she can't begrudge her parents for losing hope, when she herself held none for just as long.

Killian caresses her knee again softly, helping to focus her thoughts and she plasters a smile on her face, doing her best to look thrilled.

Thalia offers her small hand brightly and Emma takes it.

"Hi! I'm Thally and I'm six years old!" the girl says quite proudly and Emma feels her lips twitch slightly as her forced smile grows genuine.

_She has a sister_.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

A/N: Okay my loves, here's a nice long chapter! And for those of you that read Warm Nights & Firelight, I PROMISE I will update soon (this darn eonline poll has been ruining my life lately).

* * *

><p>Lunch is an extravagant affair and Killian doesn't think he's ever see this much food in one place.<p>

Soup and rolls are brought out first, followed by wine and a slightly ridiculous assortment of cheese. The main course follows; roast duck and potatoes, with turnip, squash and beets on the side. Tea and dessert, a flakey sweet chocolate pastry to finish, and by the time it's all said and done, Killian is left wondering how on earth Emma's parents don't weigh three stone each. He feels fit to burst and now wishes that Marietta hadn't forced him into such skin-tight breeches.

Emma had attempted to keep up with the endless supply of food, but mostly ended up pushing the main course around her plate in a pitiable effort to make it appear as if she had actually eaten something. She appears distracted and doesn't contribute much to the conversation beyond well timed nods and not quite real laughter.

Thankfully topics of discussion remain light. With Emma's little sister present, more serious matters are tabled for a later hour. Talk is mostly relegated to debate on how high Thalia's new pony can jump, and the young princess insists that Emma and he (Killy she has dubbed him) go for a ride with her this afternoon.

Killian doesn't presume to answer; he may be dressed like a prince and yes, he is dining with the royal family, but he's still a pirate, he knows it and they know it, so he remains silent and awaits their verdict.

Emma for her part seems to think it's a splendid idea, and after brief discussion, Snow White sends her daughters off with the maids to change into more appropriate riding attire.

He stands when Emma and Thalia leave the table, bowing his head in a proper show of manners, and Emma throws him a look over her shoulder that screams _behave!_

Taking his seat again, Killian sips at his remaining tea in silence for several minutes.

"You know, for a pirate, you have exceptional table manners." David's tone is dry but laced with humor.

And the man cuts right to the chase. Killian had been wondering how long it would take before the topic of his rather questionable occupation arose.

"Believe it or not, I wasn't born a pirate," he says.

Snow White raises a doubtful eyebrow at that.

"And despite whatever else that title might suggest, milady," Killian addresses Snow, "I've always considered myself to be a gentleman; a man of good form if you will."

"I suppose there is the matter of your reward to discuss," Snow says, "would you rather be paid in gold or gems?"

"Or perhaps rum? Pirates like rum, do they not?" David questions.

Killian is beginning to see where Emma gets her wit.

"Perhaps we could save this discussion for another day," Killian suggests, "I do not wish to sully such a joyous occasion with talk of remuneration."

"Fair enough, Jones." David nods and the matter is put aside for the time being. "Will you be joining us for supper?"

"If you'll have me," Killian nods, "this humble pirate would be honored to dine at your table once more."

The princesses re-enter the room and Killian immediately stands to greet them.

Emma is dressed again in her riding attire, now clean, her leather jacket and boots polished and oiled. The grey wool vest is replaced by one of pale gold satin (the same shade as her hair), but other than that, her outfit remains unchanged.

Thalia is dressed much the same, but in warm brown, cherry red, and sky blue; her curls braided up into the same up do as Emma.

"Look mama! Candace did my hair like Emma's!" Thalia calls, pointing to her head.

"I see that honey!" Snow replies. "You both look beautiful. Those horses won't know what hit them. "

Thalia beams and runs to Killian's side, grabbing his hand, tugging on his fingers.

Oh the blissful ignorance of youth. The young princess doesn't even think to question his presence, or Emma's. She doesn't see him as a pirate, and she doesn't seem to find it strange that her much older sister, whom she has never met, has mysteriously reappeared. She's an innocent, unblemished by life, and he's quite fond of the lack of judgement in her eyes.

"Do you think I look beautiful, Killy?" she asks, twirling on his index finger.

"Like a queen," he tells her, "beautiful, just like your mother." He says it loud, intentionally and he catches the quick smile that flickers across Snow White's face.

"Emma, darling," Killian offers his left arm. "Shall we go see those horses now?"

Emma takes his arm with a not so subtle eye roll, and turns to her sister who still clings to his fingers.

"Lead the way, Thalie."

For the first few minutes of their walk across the palace grounds, Thalia clasps his hand tightly, swinging his arm merrily. She grows quickly excited though and skips ahead to walk several yards in front of them.

They're alone as he suspects they will be for quite some time and Emma shifts a little closer to him, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

"Humble pirate, eh?" she jokes. "I'm fairly certain those two words are never supposed to grace the same sentence."

"You heard that?" he questions, grinning as Thalia kicks at a stone up ahead.

Emma nods. "Laying it on pretty thick there, aren't you mister?" she pauses, "calling both my mother and sister beautiful in one fell swoop."

"Are you jealous, love? I'd be only too happy to comment on your beauty as well if it pleases you darling." Killian waggles his eyebrows. "We both know how much I enjoy pleasing you."

A light blush colours her cheeks and Emma glares at him. "Seriously, stop doing that!" she scolds.

"Doing what?" He's being bad and he knows it, but he can't help toying with her.

"Calling me love, darling, saying indecent things that make me want to rip your clothes off, guards, maids, my parents be damned." Her voice is hushed but she looks around to make sure no one heard.

"Oh that," he deadpans and it earns him a second, sharper jab to his ribs.

"All right, all right, I'll behave." He does his best to sound sincere, but it comes across as incredibly false, even to his own ears and Emma just shakes her head.

She pretends to be annoyed, but he knows that secretly she loves it.

Thalia chooses that moment to run back towards them, grabbing Emma's hand and pulling her forward. "Come on, come on! We're almost there!"

They are forced to jog the rest of the way to the barn.

The stables are large, immaculate and well-kept. Killian instantly spots the two familiar bay geldings, and moves to pat the closest on the neck, but Emma doesn't follow him.

She isn't following Thalia either, who has taken off down the long aisle to fetch her pony. Instead she stands at the door of another stall, fixated on the golden mare that stands within.

"Aurelia?" Emma's voice is small, uncertain, but the mare knickers softly and nudges Emma's shoulder.

Killian steps closer. "Was this one yours, love?"

Emma nods. "She was a present for my tenth birthday; I never even got to ride her. I was taken ..." _before I had the chance_.

The rest of the words are unspoken, but he hears them anyway.

"You have the chance now, Emma," he tells her.

She turns and looks at him, tears of gratitude swimming in her eyes, and then unexpectedly, she's hugging him tightly, pressing a whispered "thank you" to his ear.

The hug is short-lived and she pulls back quickly, but the smile on her face is blinding, it's like staring at the sun, but he doesn't want to look away.

"You're most welcome, darling," he says and she looks at him pointedly, wiping away tears but still managing to look vexed by his apparent inability to cease with the pet names.

"Apologies, but I seem to recall being yelled at last time I attempted to address you by formal titles, and you continue to rebuke all terms of endearment, so tell me princess, since you seem so intent on limiting my rather extensive vocabulary, what precisely shall I call you?"

She huffs, and as predicted, rolls her eyes yet again. "Look, I get that you're like three hundred years old and all, and that you've got this crazy huge vocabulary you insist on showing off, but just stick to Emma, okay?" she grumbles. "It is my name after all."

"As you wish, Emma."

If she has a problem with how he intentionally draws out her name, tongue caressing each syllable, well then, that's just a damned shame.

Thalia chooses that moment to return with her pony in tow.

"This is Max!" she informs them, feeding a carrot to the stout dapple grey gelding.

"Lovely to meet you Max," Emma says, patting the pony's neck, "Thalie here tells me you're quite the little jumper."

"He's the best!" Thalia insists, enthusiastically.

Max is quite rotund and barely looks as if he could clear a small garden bench, but Killian smiles and lets the pony nuzzle at his hand.

"What do you say ladies, shall we tack these horses up and go for a ride?"

Responding with barely contained glee, Thalia leads them to fetch the appropriate tack, and soon they're following her out the door to a well groomed sand ring, filled with jumps.

Seated upon a sturdy chestnut mare, Killian is content to mostly observe, watching as Emma and Thalia ride side by side in circles around the large arena. The sun is bright and warm, and his stomach is full, so he relaxes, enjoying the light spring breeze that cuts through his hair.

When the horses are warmed up, Emma steers Aurelia back to his side, and they stand with their horses positioned out of the way to watch Thalia and Max jump.

As it turns out, the little pony is actually a fantastic jumper, popping over several two foot fences with ease, and despite her young age, Thalia is quite an accomplished rider.

"Seems your sister also has a way with horses," Killian observes.

"I guess it's in our blood, my mother always did have a special connection with animals," Emma tells him, smiling as Thalia returns to their side.

"Your turn Emma!" the little girl calls. "Jump those really big ones," she says, pointing to several fences that are at least four feet in height.

Emma looks hesitant and Thalia picks up on it right away.

"Don't worry," she declares, "Aurelly can jump those easy! Most days she jumps right out of her paddock over fences that are taller than Killy! The stable hands don't think it's very funny, but I do!"

Emboldened, Emma gathers her reins and spurs the mare forward into a canter. She guides the golden mare toward the smaller jumps first and Aurelia practically steps over them, looking downright bored.

They change direction, heading toward the larger jumps and Aurelia's ears prick forward with interest. Muscles bunching, the mare clears each fence with practiced easy and room to spare, wiping away any doubts Killian has about her ability to jump a fence his height.

"Wow!" Emma exclaims, hugging the mare around the neck as she rejoins them.

"Indeed," Killian says. "That's a fine mare you have there, Emma."

Thalia positively beams up at her older sister, regarding her with awe and wonder. "One day I want to be just like you, Emma!" Thalia insists excitedly.

Emma's face clouds over briefly at that statement and she seems at a loss for words, so Killian steps in, "I'm sure you will be, princess," he assures Thalia. "Perhaps you and Max can jump round that course once more before we head back to the stables, aye?"

Nodding, Thalia trots away from them and Emma gives him a grateful smile.

"Thanks," she says, "I'm still trying to process the fact that I actually have a sister and sometimes I just have no clue what to say to her, you know?"

Killian nods, "I myself was shocked, I can't even begin to imagine how you're feeling, love."

_Love_; the endearment slips past his lips before he can stop it, but this time Emma doesn't reprimand him. So long as no one is around to hear them, he thinks, perhaps, she will allow it.

The gentle breeze and the act of horseback riding have dislodged several strands of hair from the braid circling her head, and unconsciously, he reaches out to tuck an errant lock behind her ear. Her green eyes are bright and her cheeks flushed, but the smile on her face doesn't quite ring true. She looks tired, as if everything that has happened today has finally registered; reality hitting her hard as she struggles to appear whole under the onslaught.

Cracks in her facade have continued to appear as the day wears on, and he wonders how much longer she'll be able to keep up the act. She's resilient, unbelievably strong and stubborn, but he knows that even she has her limits, and a time will come when the effort of supporting all those walls, becomes too much. He can only hope that she will seek him out for comfort, a concession he will gladly provide, in whatever form she desires.

With the return of Thalia and Max, they decided to head back to the stables. By the time they've finished with the horses, Emma looks downright exhausted and doesn't even balk when he offers his still hook-less arm to escort her back to the castle. Thalia takes his hand again and he completes the short journey with a princess on each arm.

Thalia talks his ear off about her dolls and her dance lessons and her upcoming birthday, and he listens avidly, answering and questioning when appropriate, allowing Emma to remain silent on his left, shielded from the barrage of endless chatter.

"Papa! Killy has promised to dance with me at my birthday ball!" Thalia announces loudly when they find Emma's father in the library.

"Did he now? I wasn't under the impression he would be staying that long," David says, closing his book.

"You did what?" Emma echoes a heartbeat later. Clearly she hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation.

"Well, a man can hardly refuse when a princess requests that he save her a dance, especially when that dance is to be had at a ball thrown in her honour next week," Killian insists and Thalia giggles.

"Please! PLEASE! He _has_ to stay!" Thalia pleads, pouting, chin quivering, her expression so pathetically persuasive that her father would have to be heartless to deny her.

"All right monkey, don't have a fit, if Mr. Jones wishes to stay and attend, he may do so," David says, shaking his head, seemingly in disbelief. He just invited a pirate to a royal ball after all.

"You'll come right, Killy?" Thalia asks. "I'm sure Emma would wish to dance with you too!"

Killian doesn't miss the crooked smile that shines briefly on Emma's lips.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, milady," he says, bowing dramatically and earning yet another bought of joyous laughter from the young princess.

On that note, David sends them all their separate ways, accompanied by maids, to change for dinner. Much to his chagrin, Marietta appears and shoos him toward the door with a not so gentle pinch to his side.

* * *

><p>David finds his wife in their bed-chambers, seated on the bench by the window, Emma's baby blanket smoothed over her lap.<p>

After lunch, when their daughters had left with the pirate to visit the stables (discretely shadowed by two guards of course), he had retreated to the library and Snow to their room; both requiring some time alone to process the return of their first-born.

She's fully grown now, no longer a child, and while he's caught glimpses of her cursed form in the enchanted shard of mirror, nothing could have prepared him for the breathtakingly beautiful woman she's become.

He would have loved nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and hold his sweet baby girl for the remainder of the day, but she's no longer an infant, and he didn't miss the way she stiffened when Snow first embraced her. She's been gone for so long that it's clearly an adjustment for all of them and he doesn't want to pressure her.

Time will allow them to grow closer again and he can only hope that the fates will see fit to allot them more than Regina's curse has provided.

Jones, the pirate, is not at all what he expected. The man speaks as though well-educated and thoroughly read; and his mannerisms are more in keeping with those of a knight, than those of a pirate. He'd certainly looked the part at first, dressed head to toe in black leather, dirty, bloodied, and beaten, but David suspects, like most people, there's more to Killian Jones than meets the eye.

Snow stands then, delicately sitting the blanket aside.

"Are they back from the stables?" she asks.

"They are," he confirms, "I've sent them off with the maids to get cleaned up for supper."

"So the pirate will be joining us again?"

"Ah yes he will, about that..." he trails off.

"Daaaavid?" Snow questions suspiciously. She's always been good at knowing when he's withholding information.

"Soooo, Jones will be staying with us a while longer, I uh, may have invited him to Thalia's birthday ball," he sputters, already knowing he's in deep shit.

"_May have_?" Snow's voice is sarcastic, sharp and dry.

Clarification. Shit. Honesty is the best policy right? "Yeah, I invited him to the ball," he admits, reluctantly.

"He's a pirate David! He has no business attending a royal ball," Snow tells him. "And to extend an invitation to stay? For an indeterminate amount of time? What were you thinking?"

"I don't know," he starts, but a pointed glare from his wife has him changing his tune. "Thalia looked like she was going to cry if I said no..."

It's pathetic, he knows it and Snow confirms it.

"You fall for that every time David and she _knows_ it. All she has to do is pout and blink those big blue eyes and if she asked for it, you'd try to pull the moon from the sky for her." Snows voice softens. "You're getting soft in your old age," she tells him with a smile.

David has the good sense to look chastened.

I'm serious though, David," Snow continues. "Don't you see how he looks at her? The pirate looks at her like he has some sort of claim over her, like she belongs to him."

"Look, I know all you can see is a pirate, Snow, and I get that, but I think there's more to him than that." He takes her hand. "I see a man that brought our daughter home when no one else could. A man that makes no claim to the riches we owe him. And yes, I see how he looks at her. He looks like a man who, given time, would go to the ends of the earth for her."

He's hardly finished his thought and his dear wife is already bristling with another rebuttal.

"And don't you find that suspicious? That he doesn't seem interested in gold? What if he seeks something else entirely? He's a pirate David; I will not marry my daughter off to the likes of him!"

"WHOA! Whoa, slow down, no one said anything about marriage," David says grabbing Snow's other hand.

"All I'm saying is, what harm can come of it? Him staying here as our guest for a short while longer? He wouldn't bring her home just to steal her away, Snow. We'll talk to them after dinner, when Thalia has gone to bed; attempt to discover what reward he seeks then, okay?" he insists.

Deflating visibly, Snow sighs.

"All right, fine. But I'm still arranging for suitors to come meet with Emma. Thalia's birthday ball will be the perfect occasion."

She grips his hands tighter, tears shining in her eyes.

"Emma will be twenty in just over four months. She needs to fall in love and break the curse, David," Snow says, hands trembling.

They may have their daughter back, but it's not over yet, not by a long shot.

"I swear to you, Snow. We will not lose her again."

* * *

><p>Supper is a tense affair, and conversation is stilted, limited to safe topics of no considerable weight. Thalia, thankfully does not seem to notice the disquiet that hovers wearily in the room. She appears exhausted by the day's events and as soon as the meal is finished, Snow stands and tells her it's time for bed.<p>

Thalia hugs her father and David kisses her on the head. "Sleep well, monkey," he tells her.

Emma is unprepared when her sister runs over and wraps her arms around her middle in a squeezing embrace.

"Goodnight Emma! I had fun with you today. I like having a sister." The words are sweet and sincere and Emma returns the hug, blinking back tears.

"I like having a sister too," Emma says, surprised by the truthfulness of the statement. It's not something she ever expected, or even hoped for, but the little girl is quickly working her way into Emma's heart.

Next, Thalia hugs Killian, who awkwardly returns the embrace with his left arm and a broken smile.

"G'night Killy!" Thalia sings, and Emma fights back a laugh.

"Sweet dreams, lass." Killian waves as Snow leads Thalia from the room.

Silence settles over the room again and Emma looks from her father to Killian and back again. Unspoken words linger, waiting in the wings, and their presence is a burden she's sure they're all tired of carrying.

The silence is deafening and when she can no longer bare it, she decides to speak.

"Look guys, obviously there's a lot that needs to be said here, so can we just stop pretending and get it all out in the open?" It's not exactly eloquent, but it does the trick.

Killian speaks up, "I think that would be best."

David sighs and stands. "Let's move this to another room; your mother will join us shortly."

They follow her father into a small sitting room with a large hearth, and David sets to work building a fire.

Emma takes the lone armchair for herself, leaving Killian to sit on the smaller of the two couches. She would prefer to sit next to him, but she doesn't trust herself not to reach out and touch him, to grab his hand for the support that she so desperately wants.

Killian watches her closely, too closely, and she wants to push him away and pull him close at the same time. He's infuriating in his ability to read her, and even after close to a month and a half of knowing him, it still manages to unnerve her at times.

She feels childish glaring at him, thinking about how she wants to stick her tongue out at him and yell _stop looking at me like that_!

Apparently he gets the message anyway, because he gives her an understanding smile and drops his gaze to his boots.

Her mother joins them just as David finishes stoking the fire.

David takes a seat next to Snow and with all of them seated in front of the bright fire, silence descends once again and Emma huffs, frustrated.

"Let's take the kid gloves off," Emma starts, "can we all just _stop_ with the pleasantries? Stop worrying about stepping on each other's toes, okay? There's a lot that needs to be said and I'd rather it didn't take all evening. It's been a long day and I've missed you guys, I really have," she tells her parents, "but this," she waves her arms in a gesture that's meant to encompass so many things, "has all been a lot to take in and I need to be alone for a while."

Snow starts to protest, but Emma cuts her off.

"I'm not done yet," she says. "If you have questions, you can ask them, but for now, please just be quiet. I need to say a few things first."

Everyone remains quiet this time, so Emma continues.

"I'm not sure how much you guys know about my curse," Emma addresses her parents, "Killian already knows pretty much all there is to know, but I'll cover the highlights."

Emma takes a deep breath. She could explain this a thousand times and she doubts it would ever get easier.

"From sunset until sunrise, my appearance changes; it's not pretty, I look half dead."

Killian looks like he wants to argue that fact, but she silences him with a look.

"But that's not the worst of it; I have visions of the dying, premonitions really. As far as I can tell, if I see it that night, it means that it will happen the next day. They aren't constant, some nights there are none at all, some nights only one or two."

Emma doesn't elaborate on the nature of the visions; how she can see and smell and hear everything, but is unable to speak with or touch the dying. Her parents are already regarding her with such sorrow, that she can't bring herself to burden them with the specifics.

This should be the hard part to say, but it leaves her lips with surprising ease. "I've got until my twentieth birthday to break the curse. If I don't, I will, for all intents and purposes, be dead, a ghost, doomed to an eternity of foreseeing death."

As an afterthought, Emma adds, "oh and if I scream while in my cursed state, I end up shattering any glass close to me. Learned that the hard way; broke quite a few windows on Killian's ship."

Emma throws an apologetic smile Killian's way and his lip quirks up in return.

It seems almost hilarious, especially as an addendum to her imminent death, and if tears weren't streaming down her mother's cheeks, she would probably laugh.

"Is there, uh anything else you want to know?" Emma asks her parents.

Snow speaks up first. "We actually knew most of that already," she says, "but thank you for sharing it with us..."

David continues by way of explanation, "Regina left us a letter when she took you, pretty much explained the curse in her uniquely horrifying way. She left us a shard of mirror too, so that we could see you, but only at night" he says, "it's not here, we kept it hidden out in a windowless shack in the forest. Had to find somewhere to keep it after all the windows in the stables were shattered."

Emma can't help but laugh. Levity in humor, and all that. The mood is dark and she needs to lighten it.

Something dawns on her then. "There was a mirror in my prison, it was cracked and missing a piece at the bottom," Emma says slowly, as the pieces click together.

"Emma..." her mother begins, "in that prison, were you alone? All those years?"

There's no sense lying, so Emma nods.

Snow begins crying in earnest, burying her face against David's chest.

"We're so sorry Emma," her father says, tears in his own eyes. "We're so sorry we didn't try harder to get you back."

Now Emma is really wishing she'd chosen to sit beside Killian. His touch seems to steady her and she needs it now more than ever. She looks at him and he nods, reassuring.

Emma turns back to her parents. "You don't have to apologise," she tells them, "I know how hard you tried, how many times you sent rescue attempts. It was an impossible task."

"But somehow a pirate managed it?" her mother says.

"Barely," Emma says. "Killian's smart, but honestly, he got lucky. By rights, he shouldn't have survived."

It's the truth and they need to hear it.

"And he lost his entire crew in the process," Emma admits.

Something akin to shocked appreciation dawns on Snow's face.

"I'm so sorry," Snow says, "we're so sorry," she amends, "that you lost so much in doing what we never could. Thank you, Killian, for bringing our baby girl home. "

They're the most sincere words Emma has heard her mother speak to Killian since their arrival, and she thinks it's about damn time.

Killian blushes lightly and scratches behind his ear. He's definitely not used to receiving sincere words of gratitude and it seems to almost embarrass him.

"As I said before, milady, it was my pleasure, besides, it was the honourable thing to do."

David speaks next. "I know we agreed before Jones, that we wouldn't discuss payment today, but I've got to ask, what do you expect to get out of all this?"

Killian looks ready to speak but Emma stills his tongue with a look that says _let me_.

"What he wants isn't gold or jewels," she says, "what he wants is an alliance; information and any help you can provide in ridding this realm of a man I know you've dealt with, who I know you hold no love for."

"Emma," her father cautions.

"I'm not stupid father, I know better than to speak his true name," she says.

"And why exactly does a pirate seek to destroy the dark one?" David asks.

Killian holds up his left arm. "He took something from me once, and I assure you, she meant far more to me than my hand ever did."

"Revenge?" Snow questions in disbelief. "You want help with revenge?"

"Is that so much to ask for?" Killian says, expression dark, looking more like the ruthless pirate her parents believed him to be.

"If that's what you truly want, then we will do what we can to help you," Snow says, "but I feel inclined to warn you, revenge is a dark and lonely path. There is no happiness at the end of it."

Killian nods solemnly, the darkness in his features fading, replaced by sad acceptance. "I know."

"Very well then, you will stay here as our guest until we find something of use to aid you in your quest," David concludes.

The fire dwindles to glowing embers and Emma stifles a yawn. The sun has yet to set, but she's already tired. She doubts she'll actually sleep, but her parents don't need to know that.

"I'm going to bed," Emma says standing. It's abrupt and perhaps a little rude, but she doesn't want to be around her mother and father when night falls. They may have seen what she looks like in that shard of mirror, but to see it in person is an entirely different matter. She doesn't want their pity.

She hugs each of her parents, and gives Killian a discrete but meaningful look, wishing she could crawl into bed with him and rest in his strong arms.

When she moves to the door, her mother makes as if to follow her, but Emma shakes her head. "I can see myself the rest of the way. Please make sure that no one enters my room until sunup," she requests.

Snow nods. "Goodnight Emma."

David and Killian both echo the sentiment and she closes the door behind her to wander through the quiet castle alone.

* * *

><p>Snow excuses herself not too long after Emma leaves, but Killian stays in the sitting room with David for some time afterwards. He doesn't want to leave abruptly and risk it appearing as if he means to follow Emma. Snow and David seem to be marginally more accepting of his presence now that most everything is out in the open. He doesn't want to ruin that.<p>

David adds more wood to the fire and returns to the couch with an ornate bottle of liqueur in one hand and two glass snifters in the other.

"I know Snow and I haven't come across as entirely grateful," David begins, "there are a lot of feelings to work through here and we're trying our best to do so with haste, but I want you to know that we are both beyond thankful for all that you have done for our daughter."

Pouring a generous helping of amber liquid into each glass, David hands him one before lifting his own.

"To Emma," David says, clinking their glasses together.

"To Emma," Killian agrees, and they both sip at the cognac.

The liqueur is smooth and heady as it swirls on his tongue and slips down his throat. Oaky and flavorful, notes of nutmeg and toffee mix together in a well aged blend.

"How old is this particular blend?" Killian asks, interested.

"I was aged twenty-five years when it was given to me as a wedding present," David says, "I opened it that night, and again the night Emma was born, but since then, I only drink from it on special occasions. I should think that Emma's return qualifies as such."

Killian nods. "Indeed it does."

Drinking in relative silence, the fire crackles away, logs hissing and snapping as the flames consume them. The blaze warms him from the outside, and the golden spirit in his glass sends heat crawling through his limbs from within.

"You said earlier that you weren't always a pirate?" David asks and the question prompts explanation.

"Not always, no. Once, long ago, I was a lieutenant; a member of a royal navy," Killian begins.

"Which king did you serve?" David questions curiously.

"No one you would know," Killian insists. "When I said long ago, I was not merely exaggerating for dramatic purposes; it was in fact, a very long time ago. Nearly three centuries."

Coughing, David nearly chokes on his drink and Killian laughs.

"Your daughter had much the same reaction when I told her my true age."

"But how? You look to be no older than thirty," David sputters, wiping at his chin with a cloth pulled from his breast pocket.

"I've spent much of my long life in a realm called Neverland," Killian explains. "It's a world governed by magic, much like this one, but even more so. Time does not move there, and as such, its occupants never age."

"I knew there was more to you than meets the eye," David says proudly, "I kept trying to tell Snow that you weren't just any old pirate."

Killian raises an eyebrow. "Defending me to your lovely wife?" he jests, "why mate, I had no idea you cared."

David groans at that and rolls his eyes. Emma and her father are alike in more than looks; it seems they also share a number of mannerisms despite spending so many years apart.

"That's _king_ to you pirate," David corrects, "and I don't care, I've just come to learn over the years that everyone has a story, and it's not always what you think. Rarely is anyone exactly who they appear to be."

"Wise words indeed," Killian admits, raising his glass in acknowledgement.

Nodding, David downs the remainder of his cognac and reaches for the bottle to pour them each a second helping.

When Killian first set out to rescue the princess and return her home, never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would wind up seated across from the king, sharing conversation and some of the finest liquor he's ever tasted in his exceedingly long life. He finds it wonderful, that even after three hundred years; life still holds the ability to surprise him.

Conversation remains light and amicable as Killian tells David how happy Emma was to finally have the chance to ride Aurelia after all these years. They also discuss Emma's unbelievable prowess with a bow and Killian admits that he had been working with Emma to sharpen her skill with a sword.

"You dueled with my daughter?!" David inquires with alarm.

"With dull blades," Killian replies, "she was never in any danger, if anything, I stood more risk of harm. Your daughter is fierce and clever and far more resilient than you give her credit for. Bested me more times than I care to admit, and believe me when I say, that is not a task easily accomplished."

That earns him a chuckle. "That's my girl," David declares proudly.

By the time Killian drains the last drop of liquid from his third glass, his eyelids are drooping and he finds himself growing weary. It seems almost incomprehensible that so much has happened in the span of one short day.

Standing, Killian nods. "As much as I've enjoyed your company mate, I think it best I retire to my quarters," he says, "I don't imagine your wife will be too pleased with either of us if we while away the night drinking."

"No. Certainly not a wise plan if one intends to stand in her good graces," David agrees.

With the fire extinguished they part ways. The hour is late and the castle is darkened and quiet. Several guards stand stationed in hallways, and he nods to them as he passes. His chambers are located on the ground level, far away from the towers that the royal family occupy. The room is of considerable size, modestly decorated and quite comfortable.

Thankfully Marietta is nowhere to be seen and he makes it to his quarters without pause. The task of undressing is made considerably more difficult without the help of his hook, but he manages to pull off his boots and rid himself of the jacket, vest, and blouse, draping them over the back of a chair. He keeps the breeches on; the soft cotton is comfortable enough and even though his door is bolted from the inside, it doesn't feel right to sleep entirely nude in a castle with guards and maids around every corner.

Judging by the height of the moon in the sky, it's been dark for hours now, his time spent with David passing far quicker than he realized. The sky is clear and the air fresh, so he opens the window, inhaling the pleasant scent that wafts up from the flowers in the garden outside.

Throwing back the thick navy covers, he settles in the bed. The room is cool and quiet, and the alcohol flowing through his veins is warm and soothing. It's all perfectly conducive to sleep, and up until a few minutes ago he was exhausted, but now that he lies in bed, all thoughts of sleep seem to vanish. He's overtired, slipping past exhaustion into a maddening state of restless wakefulness.

Seems he was correct in his prediction that sleepless nights would return with the departure of Emma from his bed.

What he wouldn't give to have her here with him right now. He briefly contemplates trying to sneak up to her room, but he doesn't know where it is, and even if he did, there's no way in hell he'd be able to slip past that many guards.

Killian spends the next half hour trying to doze off. He tries thinking of nothing, he tries thinking of everything, he even counts bloody fucking sheep, but sleep remains as elusive as ever.

Sighing, he rises from bed and moves to sit on the window ledge, resigned to the fact that his attempts are clearly doomed to fail. The sky is clear and the stars are out, and while the view isn't quite as breathtaking as it is on the open sea, it's beautiful nonetheless.

The flowers outside the window are fragrant, light and sweet, and Killian reaches down to pluck a handful of the blooms. The blossoms themselves are small, no larger than his thumbnail, but grow in bright blue clusters. He lifts them to his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling their slightly pungent odour.

"They're called forget-me-nots," Emma says quietly and he startles, nearly falling from the windowsill.

She stands outside his window in slippers and dark grey robe, silver-white hair blowing in the light breeze.

"Bloody hell love, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" he whispers forcefully.

Emma grins at him. "Maybe," she admits. "Now let me in before someone sees me out here."

Offering his hand, he helps her climb through the open window. She instantly wraps him in a tight hug, cold fingers pressed to his back as she nuzzles her face against his bare chest. He holds her close, hand gliding over slippery silk to rest against her lower back, trying to figure out just how she's actually here in his room right now.

Maybe this is a dream? He's half tempted to pinch himself.

"I'm most certainly not complaining darling, but how are you here?" he quietly seeks clarification.

Emma laughs softly, pressing a kiss to the hollow between his collarbones.

"It's been a while," she says, "but it's certainly not the first time I've snuck out of my room to gallivant around the castle in the dark."

Pulling back slightly, she looks at him. "I couldn't sleep," she admits. "Looks like you couldn't either."

"It would seem I've grown accustomed to your presence in my bed." His hand slides lower, over the swell of her ass, squeezing. "It's really quite a problem."

She moulds against him willingly enough, but he gets the feeling she didn't come here to partake in a late night romp between the sheets.

His hand comes up to her hair, combing through the locks, wild and curly, now free from the braid she wore earlier.

"Did you have a vision, love?" he asks.

Emma nods. "That's not why I'm here though, it wasn't that bad."

She pulls back and takes his hand, leading him to sit with her on the edge of the bed.

"It's just," she stalls and he can see the wheels turning as she searches for the right words, "so much has happened today and some of it is new and some is old, and it's not bad, not at all, but it's been so long since I've had all this, been around this many people," she breathes, tracing the veins on the back of his hand with her thumb.

"And earlier, when I said I needed to be alone, I lied," her voice is hushed but level, "I didn't need to be alone, I needed to be with you."

Emma pauses again, but he waits, knowing she has more to say.

"I needed to be with you because you're familiar, and this, whatever it is we have, it's easy, and I know it's a little fucked up, but somehow when I'm with you, it's like the rest of the world stops existing for a while, and I need that right now so that I can sleep long enough to get up and deal with the world again tomorrow."

He shifts backward to recline on the mattress and holds out his hand.

"Come here," he requests.

Emma toes off her slippers and unties her robe, setting it aside to reveal a simple white nightgown. She crawls onto the bed, over to him and settles against his side with her head on his shoulder, pulling the bedclothes up to cover them.

She tilts her head up and meets his lips in a lazy kiss, tongue sweeping idly, slow and deep and oh so sweet. When they part, her head returns to his chest and she slings an arm and leg over him in a full body hug. He pulls her tight with his arm around her waist and presses a kiss to her hair.

"Think you'll be able to wake up in time to sneak back to your room?"

He would prefer to keep her here till mid-morning, long past sunrise but there's no acceptable way to explain her presence in his chambers and he imagines slinking back to her room unnoticed in the light of day would be an impossible feat.

"Mhmm," Emma mumbles sleepily, pressing a kiss to his sternum.

In seconds, she's sound asleep, and it's only seconds more until he joins her.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

A/N: Okay, so a large portion of this chapter is basically smut. I hope that's not a problem. ;)

* * *

><p>A series of resounding crows startle Emma from sleep and she sits upright in bed, looking around in the dark grey light, attempting to pinpoint the source of the noise. The room is remarkably still and it takes her a moment to remember that she's no longer on The Jolly Roger, that she's home. She's in Killian's quarters, in his bed, and quickly she realizes it was the call of a rooster that woke her.<p>

_Shit_. She needs to leave _now_.

Killian grumbles, still half asleep when she lifts his arm from her waist and slides from the bed. She pulls on her robe, tying it hastily and steps into her slippers before turning back to face him.

Sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward her, Killian blinks up at her drowsily, a lazy smile playing at his lips. His hair sticks up in every direction and the smooth skin of his back ripples over lean muscle as he shifts to face her more fully.

The rooster crows again and she looks to the window. The sky is still mostly dark, an inky periwinkle blue, and the barest hint of apricot ghosts across the horizon. She knows she should make haste and leave immediately, but Killian's features are soft in the muted light and fighting the urge to kiss him is an impossible task, so she leans over the bed, weight on her hands and brings their lips together; the kiss shifting from soft and sweet to heated and urgent in the blink of an eye.

Humming against his lips, she pulls back regretfully when he reaches for her.

"I have to go while it's still somewhat dark out," she tells him. "I'll see you shortly for breakfast?"

She hates to part with him so soon, but there's consolation in the fact that they won't be separated for long.

"Count on it, love."

Turning, she throws one last smile over her shoulder as she climbs through the window. On her way out, she spontaneously grabs the fistful of forget-me-nots he left laying on the ledge and tucks them carefully into the pocket of her robe.

The trip back to her room is uneventful. She skirts silently past the final guard and when she closes the door to her bedchamber behind her with a sigh of relief, the sun instantly breaks through the trees, drawing the curse from her skin.

Emma pulls the slippers from her feet, they're dirtied and stained so she wraps them in a cloth and tucks them away at the back of a drawer where she hopes Candace won't find them.

The flowers are placed on her nightstand before she discards her robe; their presence there shouldn't be suspicious, they grow all over the palace grounds and are thankfully not unique to the garden below Killian's window. Climbing back into her chilled bed, she pulls the covers up high to her cheeks and lies on her side, back to the door, feigning sleep.

Remembering her mother to be an early riser, she knows it won't be long before Candace arrives to help her dress for the day.

Killian's scent clings softly to her nightgown and she tugs the fabric upward to her nose, breathing in his spicy essence. It's harder than she thought it would be, being separated from him, and she berates herself for her pathetic inability to go even half a day without seeing or touching him. She craves his presence with disturbing intensity, but refuses to allow herself to consider the reasons why.

It's not something she wishes to contemplate. Why bother? None of this is permanent. He's been a constant in her life for nearly two months, but that won't last forever. When her parents find something of use to aid him in his quest for revenge, he'll be gone.

It's almost comforting, the knowledge that when he goes, she'll only have to endure his absence for a short while before her curse takes her. She won't resent him for leaving, nor does she expect him to give up his revenge, she only hopes that when he succeeds, he'll finally find the peace that has eluded him for three hundred long years.

A soft knock sounds against her door and Emma rolls to her back.

"Come in," she calls.

Candace enters with a bright smile and an armful of clothing.

"Did you sleep well, Emma?" the girl asks, bustling around the room, hanging several items in the closet before selecting one and draping it over the chest at the foot of the bed.

"I did," _just not here,_ Emma thinks, "thank you."

Sliding from the bed, Emma grabs the preselected dress and a fresh pair of undergarments. She moves behind the curtained area to quickly wash up and change, and when she steps out, the bed is made and Candace takes the nightgown from her hands.

"Turn," Candace requests, "I will lace that up for you."

The bodice is more constricting than yesterday's dress, but thankfully Candace doesn't lace it too tightly. It's another beautiful garment, made from lustrous sateen in a rich silver-grey, detailed with vibrant coral. The dress itself is long, almost brushing against the floor, but the sleeves are capped, leaving her arms exposed. The day is curiously warm for this early in spring and she's glad not to be bundled up in heavy clothing.

Emma's hair falls passed her waist in soft curls and Candace decides to leave it down, completing the look with a jeweled headband. When the maid pulls out a perfectly matching pair of coral slippers, Emma has to wonder where all this clothing came from. Did her mother have a seamstress perpetually crafting outfits should she ever return? It wouldn't come as a surprise.

Content with her work, Candace smiles proudly. "Your parents await your arrival in the dining hall," she tells Emma.

"Thank you, Candace, again."

The girl is absolutely lovely and manages to see to her every need without becoming a smothering presence.

Making her way down to the dining hall, Emma wonders if Killian's clothing will have changed today, and if their conniving maids will have subtly matched their outfits again. She tries to imagine Killian dressed in a bright coral-pink vest and would be laughing if it weren't for the fact that he could probably pull it off.

Her father and Killian are already seated at the table when she passes through the towering doorway and into the dining hall. She takes her seat next to Killian and though she appraises him discretely, he grins at her knowingly, intently as he takes in her own attire.

His outfit is not matching per say, not so far as to include the same bright coral as hers, but the waistcoat he wears sports an intricate silver and black paisley pattern. The look is paired with black breeches and a simple while blouse.

Honestly it's a bit ridiculous how good he looks, and once again she's left wondering where all these clothes came from. She's starting to think that somewhere, hidden in this castle is a giant wardrobe of matching his and hers attire.

Belatedly, she notices that his brace is no longer empty. It now holds an intricately carved wooden hand; Geppetto's handiwork by the looks of it. Without thinking, she reaches out to grab his arm and pulls it toward her for a closer look.

"Where did this come from?" she asks, tracing the smooth contours of the polished wood.

Her father coughs and Emma looks up startled, instantly letting go of Killian's arm, which of course means that it flops into her lap when she's no longer supporting its weight. Killian withdraws quickly enough, but not before she feels a light blush climb its way up her chest to settle in her cheeks.

"I had Geppetto carve it last night," David says. "Can't return the hook while he stays in the castle, but figured this would be an acceptable substitute in its stead."

Killian grins. "Thanks again Dave, 'tis much appreciated."

Her father nods graciously.

Emma glances back and forth between the two men. Did Killian just call her father Dave? And did her father just accept it without comment? Emma wonders what exactly occurred between the two of them after she left the sitting room last night. They seem to be getting along quite well and she makes a mental note to ask Killian about it later.

Snow and Thalia enter the room then and take their seats as breakfast is carried out. The quantity of food is once again overwhelming, but Emma's appetite is better today, so she manages to eat a respectable amount.

Thalia has writing and reading lessons this morning, so after breakfast David leaves with her.

As Snow finishes off her tea she looks up at Emma.

"Emma honey," she starts, "I have to write out and send some last minute invitations for Thalia's birthday ball. Do you think you'll be able to keep yourself occupied for the morning?"

It takes every ounce of self-control that Emma possesses to dampen the gleeful grin that threatens to rise to her lips at the prospect of having the entire morning to spend as she sees fit.

Nodding, Emma tries to appear at least somewhat reluctant to part ways with her mother.

"Yeah, I'm sure I can keep busy. Maybe I'll give Killian a tour of the castle and stop by the royal gardens; I imagine the trees have grown since I last visited."

"Have fun sweetheart," Snow says cheerily, seemingly in a much more balanced mood today. "I expect to see you both back here for lunch."

"We will be," Emma promises, pushing her chair back from the table with a loud screech.

She winces at the horrible sound and her mother admonishes her with an appalled "Emma!"

"Sorry," she apologizes quickly.

She may be dressed like a princess now, but she's still no better at acting like one.

Pushing his chair back into the table carefully, Killian grins at her cheekily and she takes his proffered arm.

Outside the sun is warm and bright, so Emma decides to forego a tour of the palace grounds and instead leads Killian directly toward the gardens. It's an absolutely stunning morning filled with all the sights and sounds and smells of spring, bringing back childhood memories of flowery dresses, frolicking foals, and playing with the newborn chicks in the hen house.

The whole world seems to have woken from a long winter's sleep. Trees flourish with young leaves and flowers bloom, rainbow-coloured in the soil. Birds chirp and twitter gaily, and the courtyard is abuzz with chattering maids as they pass through the gathering crowd. Recently washed linens hang on lines to dry, filling the air with their crisp, clean scent, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts from the kitchens.

The garden is located in a quiet, secluded area of the palace grounds, bordering on the very edge of the cliffs. It looks much the same now as it did nearly ten years ago; the winding stone paths and benches, well tended flower gardens and shrubbery are all the same as she remembers, but the trees have grown taller, thickening and branching out to provide more shade.

As a child, the garden was Emma's favourite place apart from the stables and she guides Killian toward an overhanging stone balcony. The entire palace grounds are essentially built atop towering rock cliffs, surrounded by inland lakes and attached to the mainland by a bridge. The balcony provides a spectacular outlook, a breathtaking view of the surrounding wilderness.

Forest, thick with coniferous trees, spreads for miles in every direction, and beyond that, mountains climb into the sky, snow tipped peaks reaching up into the clouds. The fresh water lake below is crystalline blue, shimmering in the sunlight as a gentle breeze ghosts over its surface.

Emma lets go of Killian's arm and leans against the railing, watching his face as he takes in the view. The blue of the sky and the water reflect in his eyes, enhancing their already vibrant hue.

"Beautiful isn't it?" she prompts, a rather pointless question, given that she already knows the answer.

"Aye, indeed it is. Though it pales in comparison to you, darling," Killian tells her in a low voice, raspy and seductive, that strikes a match between her thighs and turns her knees to jelly.

Sometimes it's too much; this man and his seemingly incessant desire to compliment her. He's all charm and smouldering looks, flowery words and scalding innuendo.

The back of his hand skims faintly down the line of her arm, leaving gooseflesh flesh in its wake.

"You look a bloody marvel in that dress, Emma."

He remains facing out over the balcony, as does she, but his eyes dip stealthily, caressing her in a sweeping glance that has her wishing there wasn't a guard discretely watching them at a distance through the garden.

The guard can see them, but is too far away to hear them speak, and for that, Emma is grateful, especially in light of the next words to spill vulgarly from Killian's lips.

"What I wouldn't give to lift those skirts and bend to you over this railing, love. To fuck you hard and deep until you fall to pieces on my cock."

Emma sucks in a breath.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" His eyes are dark, pupils wide despite the bright sun.

She nods, pressing her thighs together against the sudden rush of heat that gathers at their apex. She really, really would. She's wishing now that she had done more than sleep in his arms last night. The sudden urge to feel him thick and silken between her thighs is staggering.

"It's a damn shame that your parents insist on sending guards to trail us wherever we go," Killian gripes. "It would appear that they don't trust me alone with their daughter."

Emma snorts and softly bumps her shoulder against his. "For good reason."

Her words are intended to diffuse some of the growing tension, but they only serve to remind her of all the delicious reasons that he most definitely should not be trusted with her honour.

Killian nudges her back. "I'm afraid I may have to request that you make another midnight sojourn to my chambers, love," his mouth is parted slightly and he tongues the back of his teeth, "for some rather unsavoury purposes."

"I'm sure that could be arranged," she says, shifting restlessly in place.

His eyes flash dangerously and he grates his jaw so hard that she swears she can hear the joint pop.

_Oh yes, that can definitely be arranged. _

Out of the corner of her eye Emma notices the guard wander deliberately closer. His movements are clearly intended to be casual and stealthy, watching without actually appearing to be watching. The attempt is pathetic though, entirely laughable, especially when the armoured man stumbles, catches his foot on an uneven patch of stone and has to reach for the nearest tree to remain upright.

Emma knows she's standing far closer to Killian than most would probably deem appropriate, but she doesn't really care. It's not as if they're _physically_ doing anything unseemly.

The guard shifts closer yet again, within earshot now and Emma groans. She's really going to have to speak with her parents about this. She understands their concern for her safety, but she really isn't fond of being watched every waking moment.

She's weighing the pros and cons of stalking over and giving the guard a piece of her mind, telling him to back the fuck off and respect her privacy, when she comes up with a better idea. It's a split second decision and it's risky, but she runs with it.

Quietly, so the guard can't hear her, she whispers to Killian. "Follow me."

He looks at her confused for a second and she watches as realization dawns bright in his blue eyes. He nods.

Gathering her dress in her hands, Emma sets off a leisurely walk, Killian just a step behind her. The guard makes to follow, but keeps his pace slow, still trying to maintain his facade of nonchalance, falling behind when he's forced to go around a large rose garden, rather than trample through it.

They exit the gardens and Emma picks up speed as they wind through the courtyard, still full of maids and servants, milling about, completing daily tasks. When they reach the other side, Emma glances behind her quickly. The guard still follows but he's further back now and she sticks her head through the archway, observing the way ahead. Another guard is stationed about twenty yards up the path to the left, but the right is empty so she grabs Killian's hand and pulls him quickly that way.

They skirt along the shadows of an interior wall, past several more oblivious guards and Emma tugs him down a narrow alley. They pause in the shadows at the end and Killian looks at her as though she's gone mad.

"You do realize we're trapped back here if someone finds us?" he insists.

Emma just grins and begins running her hands over the rough stone on the wall. _It's here somewhere_. When she finds what she's looking for, she motions to Killian.

"Stand over here."

He tucks himself up against the wall next to her and watches as she pushes a portion of stone inwards. The floor creaks loudly, shifting as a heavy slab shifts out of the way to reveal a small staircase that spirals downward into the darkness below.

"Well, I'll be damned," Killian says. "A secret passage?"

Emma nods proudly. "One of many."

Starting down the stairs, Emma looks back up at Killian. "You coming or not, Pirate?"

* * *

><p>Killian follows her and when their heads are below ground, he watches as she leans heavily against another rock.<p>

Darkness envelops them as the stone above shifts back into place and he can't even make out her face in the inky blackness. He feels her fumbling for his hand, clasping it tightly when she finds it.

"Watch your step," she says, tugging him gently forward.

Opening and closing his eyes doesn't make a difference, it's so dark that even giving his eyes a chance to adjust doesn't help. He still can't see a damned thing, but he follows her lead as they continue down the spiral staircase in the dark. Eventually the ground levels out and she leads him down a hallway. The air is fresher here and the darkness recedes as light peaks out from underneath a door.

Emma turns the knob, pushing it open. The room is small and bare, consisting of rough rock walls, hardly more than a large closet. There's a window and he moves toward it as Emma closes the door behind them.

As it turns out, it's not really a window, more just an opening in the cliff face in which they now reside, and judging by the view, they've travelled a significant distance downward below the towering walls of the castle. Poking his head through the opening he can see trees perched on the steep cliff, and down below waves crash against jagged boulders.

Emma moves and he can feel her shifting in the small room to stand behind him. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder, arms circling around his waist to trace the band of his breeches.

"I believe you said something about wanting to bend me over and fuck me?" she whispers, lips against the shell of his ear, hand slipping over the fabric of his pants to cup him boldly. Her words and her fingers have him hard in an instant.

"Couldn't wait till tonight, aye?" he shifts his hips forward in a lazy thrust against her palm, "had to have me now?"

Emma molds herself to his back and hums against his neck, tongue and teeth working at the sensitive flesh behind his ear as she loosens his belt and unlaces his breeches to give her wandering hands access.

"I have a secret," she tells him, voice dark and honeyed against his jaw.

"Is that so?"

He reaches behind him, tracing the line of her hip through the soft material of her dress.

"Care to share?" he asks, curious.

"I was naughty last night," Emma admits.

"Indeed you were love, when you skulked across the palace grounds to spend the night in my bed," he rubs his fingers over her, frustrated by the fabric that stand between him and his goal, "but that's hardly a secret."

Removing her hands from his pants, Emma steps back just enough so that he can turn to face her. Her eyes sparkle mischievously in the warm light that spills through the window and she bites her lip, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary.

_What the devil is she up to?_

"I made another trip last night," she says grinning, playing with the buttons of his vest, "before I sought you out."

"Where to?" he asks. The bloody wench is toying with him.

"The apothecary," she quips as if that should explain everything.

_It doesn't._

"What for?"

Emma pulls an empty vial from a pocket concealed within her skirts. "I stole this."

"An empty bottle. Am I to assume that there used to be something in it?"

Emma nods.

"And that would be?" He's quickly growing tired of this impromptu game of twenty questions.

"A potion." Her answer is intentionally vague and he can tell she's fighting back a laugh as she trails her fingers back down his stomach to tug his shirt out of his pants. Blasted woman is enjoying this far too much.

He growls, a hum that vibrates deep and low in his chest. "And pray tell love, what precisely was that potion for?"

Tucking the empty bottle away in her dress, she grins up at him, fingers feather-light and teasing against his hipbones. "Just a little something to prevent certain undesired consequences should you," she pauses for a second, carefully crafting her words, "you said you wanted me to fall to pieces on your cock. Well, I want _you_ to come apart inside me."

Her words hit him like a fucking cannonball to the stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs, bowling him over. She wants him to... _Hells bells_.

He grabs her in a heartbeat, hauling her against him, lips hard, unyielding, hand in her hair, spinning her, reversing their positions to pin her against the hard wall.

"You," he groans against her neck, palming her breast roughly through the fabric of her dress, "are truly a terrible princess."

"I know."

A laugh bubbles up past her lips and her hands return to his pants, tugging at the waistband, pulling them down to free his erection. She reaches for him but he stops her with a firm shake of his head and starts bunching up her skirts. She gets the idea instantly and helps him, using both hands to hold the material out of the way while he tears at her undergarments, ripping them in his haste.

The ruined fabric is tossed heedlessly aside and while he's tempted to drop to his knees and devour her, he wants her too badly to stave off the inevitable any longer.

Wrapping his left arm around her waist, he hitches her up against the wall and her legs instantly circle around his hips, ankles crossing above his ass, heels pressed against his spine. She's beyond ready when he dips his fingers into her wetness and he wastes no time in lowering her slowly, agonizingly so, down onto his cock.

Letting go of the fabric, Emma reaches for his shoulders and shimmies against him.

"Fuck, love," he groans, head bowing to press heated kissed to her chest.

"That's the idea." Her hands fist in his hair, holding him to her.

He tugs her shirt downward to expose a rose-tipped breast to his wandering mouth. His lips close around the pert bud, tongue swirling and she hisses, tugging his hair forcefully, bringing his head up and their lips together. She squirms against him again and he withdraws, almost slipping entirely from her warmth before plunging back in roughly.

He sets a fast pace, relentlessly driving them both to frenzied madness. It's quick and chaotic and miles removed from the elegance with which she deserves to be treated, but if her breathy moans and the fluttering of her walls are any indication, she clearly doesn't seem to mind.

Burrowing his hand back beneath the layers of her dress, he feels where they're joined, the wet heat, the slick thrust of his cock as he fills her again and again. _Gods_.

"Emma," he grunts against her lips, broken and desperate, moving his thumb up to brush against her, circling. He's so fucking ready to fall and he _needs_ to take her with him.

"Let go, I'm right there with you," she whispers against his temple, walls clenching, back arching and suddenly she's pulling him under, dragging him down into depths he has no desire to escape, shuddering and weak as he spills into her with a broken cuss, his vision blackened and blurry, mouth open, teeth flashing against flesh he knows he's not supposed to bite into.

When he opens his eyes, it's to the soft rise and fall of her chest beneath his forehead and the gentle stroke of her fingers combing through his hair. He's still standing, buried deep inside her, but his knees feel boneless and he has no earthly clue how they're still upright.

Emma presses a kiss to his hair and he realizes how heavily he's leaning against her, crushing her into the unrelenting stone at her back. Her legs unlock from around his waist and he lowers her to the ground, chuckling lightly at their shared hiss as he slips from her warmth.

Untrusting of his ability to remain vertical without support just yet, he leans against the wall beside her, wishing for a bed or a chair. Emma's skirts have fallen back down to graze the floor and she moves to stand in front of him with a satisfied smile, pressing a kiss to his lips before crouching down and taking his softened length into her mouth, licking him clean.

Shaking his head, he looks down at her awestruck. No part of this should be real.

She slides him back into his pants, pulling them into place around his hips, tightening the laces and refastening his belt before tucking in his shirt and straightening his waistcoat.

"There," she says pleased, hands smoothing over his chest, "you look almost respectable again."

"What about you?" he asks, eyeing her ripped undergarments on the floor.

Emma brushes the wrinkles out of her dress and combs her fingers through her hair, straightening the headband. "I'm fine as I am," she insists, "I don't know about you, but the idea of sitting down to lunch with my parents, our mess still between my thighs is oddly appealing."

"Bloody wench," Killian groans. "You'd make a hell of a pirate, love."

She laughs at that, a light and joyous melody that floats, lingering weightlessly in the air.

"You think so?" she slinks back against his side, fingers flexing over the wood of his prosthetic hand.

"Aye, that I do," he traces the line of her collarbone with his thumb, "you're clever and far tougher than you look lass; headstrong and downright obstinate at times, but it suits you. You're no delicate flower. They can dress you up as they see fit, bury you beneath layers of silk and lace and sparkling jewels, but it's no matter, because beneath it all, you're still a goddamn hellion."

"Thanks... I think," Emma says, poking at his ribs.

"It was a compliment, love," he confirms. "I know they mightn't seem like greatly desired traits in the world of kings and queens, but to a pirate, they are of the utmost importance."

She looks at him intently for a moment, searching his face for something unknown and he's not certain what it is she expects to see. After a few long seconds a smile creeps up to grace her lips.

"Speaking of kings and queens... what exactly did you and my father talk about last night?" Emma looks up at him quizzically. "I can't believe you called him Dave and he didn't even bat an eye."

The sun has climbed its way up invisible steps to sit high in the sky and he pushes from the wall, bringing her with him.

"I'll tell you on the way," he offers, "we'd best not be late for lunch. Your mother will have my head and I'd hate for all my hard work winning your father over to be for nought."

"Hard work?" Emma scoffs. "Is there anyone is this realm you haven't been able to charm into submission with fancy words and toothy grins?"

There is one. But then again she already knows that, and he suspects the question was merely rhetorical, so he winks at her and shoos her forward to the door.

The concupiscent kiss she presses to his lips as they leave the small room stops him dead in his tracks, and it's only the fear of incurring her mother's wrath that spurs him onward through the darkened tunnels.


End file.
